


18

by boonies



Category: DBSK|Tohoshinki|TVXQ, JYJ - Fandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-27
Updated: 2016-10-09
Packaged: 2017-12-24 18:56:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 37
Words: 65,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/943470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boonies/pseuds/boonies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Assortment of unrelated scenarios based on tumblr-requested prompts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. homin

  * meeting the parents [homin]



* * *

 

Everyone knows that, in his entire fucking life, Changmin's never asked for anything.

 

He didn't ask to be an idol and he didn't ask for half of Korea—fuck, probably half of Asia—to lust after him and he didn't ask to grow into a god damn _ladder_ and he definitely never fucking asked for _this_.

 

"So, what did you need to speak to me about," Yunho's father says, half-concerned, half-nonchalant, perpetual stack of legal briefs spread under his twitching fingers.

 

Changmin's mouth is full of words but they feel a little bit like grenades and they're mixing in all the wrong ways, so Changmin fixes his posture and sits up straighter and curls his hands into his lap and opens his mouth—

 

"If it's about the matseon I've arranged for Yunho," Yunho's father reasons, signing off above a thick black line, "I've made sure it won't conflict with your touring schedule."

 

Changmin's chair creaks.

 

The sound echoes throughout the office, bouncing off the corner wall and winding through Changmin's spine.

 

"And if you have concerns about the young lady we've chosen," Yunho's father continues, clicking his pen twice and pocketing it, "I can assure you her qualifications are impeccable."

 

He falters briefly and Changmin picks up on it, inhales sharply, feeds off the tension, grows a little stronger.

 

"She's..." Yunho's father adds, oddly hesitant, "...exactly what a family like ours wants for its only son."

 

Changmin's lips curl.

 

"Since you are an only son, as well," Yunho's father says, the tiniest bit rushed, eyes slightly downcast, tie somewhat askew, "I'm sure you... understand."

 

Changmin does.

 

But hey, fuck it, he's never asked for anything before.

 

So he relaxes his shoulders, runs a rough hand through his hair, looks Yunho's father dead in the eye, and demands, confidently and without restraint,

 

"Please give Yunho to me."


	2. jaechun

  * neighbors AU [jaechun]



 

* * *

 

When Mrs. Park moves into the new apartment, the baby in her belly is already six months old and kicking in protest.

 

Mrs. Park takes her time settling in but two days into the residency, she's airing out her husband's favorite duvet and on the balcony next to her, there's a young woman, cradling a small infant, and Mrs. Park bows a little in greeting, then politely excuses herself back into the apartment.

 

*

 

Sometimes, at night, the neighbor baby cries, its miserable wails seeping through the thin walls.

 

On such nights, Mrs. Park gets indigestion and heartburn and the thing in her belly shifts and demands mixed rice and soju.

 

*

 

At seven months pregnant, on a humid, awful day, Mrs. Park takes a breather on the balcony, puts her feet up, and sullenly pokes at her swollen ankles.

 

"Ah, I have something that can help!" the woman on the other balcony yells enthusiastically, then darts inside and reappears five minutes later, hauling a cheap plastic baby pool under one arm and an actual baby under the other.

 

Together, they awkwardly maneuver the pool across the railings and fill it with water.

 

The relief is almost instant and Mrs. Park sends a grateful glance at her neighbor.

 

It's a bit stilted but the conversation starts to flow and then somehow Mrs. Park is instant friends with Mrs. Han and they're sharing the small plastic pool on Mrs. Park's balcony.

 

"When are you due," Mrs. Han asks, carefully dipping her baby into the water.

 

"Early summer," Mrs. Park says and tries not to whine.

 

"It's only scary for the first four hours," Mrs. Han comforts her. "…days. Months?"

 

"Is that how old your daughter is?" Mrs. Park chuckles. "She's very beautiful."

 

Laughing, Mrs. Han fondly pats the water-soaked cloth nappy and says, "This is my _son_."

 

Mrs. Park squints.

 

*

 

The husbands are fighting over who gets to brine the winter batch of kimchi.

 

Mrs. Park is trying not to throw up.

 

"Almost there," Mrs. Han says softly, rubbing her back. Little Jaejun is dangling off her hip, reaching chubby uncoordinated hands to touch Mrs. Park's belly.

 

Mrs. Park doesn't have to throw up anymore.

 

*

 

"If you have a girl," Mrs. Han claps her hands excitedly as her husband barrels down a busy road in a borrowed car, "she can marry Jaejun."

 

Mrs. Park pictures how cute and perfect that would be—twenty, thirty years in the future.

 

It eases the contractions by half.

 

Mr. Han still gets a speeding ticket.

 

*

 

The thing no longer in her belly is loud.

 

They tell her he doesn't seem to have a good set of lungs on him but he cries in such a sharp, strong way it's a little hard to believe.

 

Especially when Mrs. Han comes over for tea in the morning, bleary-eyed and wretched.

 

"Oh, I'm so sorry, did Yoochunnie keep Jaejunnie up," Mrs. Park asks guiltily because the walls are just so thin. "And right as Jaejunnie was learning not to cry at night—"

 

Mrs. Han rubs at her face, hair a mess.

 

"Jaejun was _laughing_."

 

*

 

Yoochunnie learns to walk at ten months.

 

Mr. Park is very proud but Mrs. Park has to run after him constantly and then he learns how to _climb_.

 

On days Mrs. Park can't take Yoochunnie over to play with the neighbor boy, Yoochunnie fights his way to the balcony and reaches tiny hands through the railings, babbling excitedly.

 

*

 

At two, Yoochun tries to scale the balcony to play with Jaejun.

 

He falls and fractures an ankle and won't go out onto the balcony at all.

 

Jaejun learns to climb the railings instead.

 

*

 

They run away together when they're six years old.

 

A helpful neighborhood ahjumma drags them home by their ears, knees scraped and faces dirty.

 

"It was my fault," Jaejun says.

 

"No, it was my fault," Yoochun says.

 

Neither one gets punished.

 

*

 

For Christmas, Mrs. Park gets Yoochun the most popular toy she can afford.

 

Mrs. Han chastises her because times are tough and toys aren't a necessity and what will Jaejun think of _his_ mother when he doesn't get a similar toy—

 

Mrs. Park raises an eyebrow as Yoochun walks by them and stuffs the toy in Jaejun's hands.

 

 

*

 

They pass their entrance exams together.

 

Mr. Park takes them out to celebrate.

 

If Mrs. Park notices the way Jaejun prepares ssambaps for Yoochun and meticulously feeds the lettuce wraps to him, fingers lingering on Yoochun's lips, she says nothing.

 

When Yoochun playfully bites Jaejun's proffered chopsticks, it's just a brotherly thing.

 

*

 

After he loses his job, Mr. Han suggests a two-family vacation.

 

To relax, unwind, recharge, down at the beach.

 

On the way back, Mrs. Park asks Jaejun to help load up the car.

 

"That looks like Yoochunnie's shirt," she laughs when he scrambles downstairs with a bulky luggage set.

 

Jaejun's face turns pink.

 

It's just sunburn.

 

*

 

"We're thinking of moving."

 

Mrs. Han fiddles with her teacup. "Oh."

 

"There's a good business opportunity," Mrs. Park sighs, patting Mrs. Han's hand, "in America."

 

Mrs. Han's eyes widen.

 

*

 

"I'm gonna stay."

 

Mr. Park rolls his eyes, stepping on a suitcase to zip it up. "Nonsense."

 

"You have Yoohwan," Yoochun says, pale and serious. "I want to—I _have_ to stay."

 

*

 

"If only he'd been born a girl," Mrs. Park laughs worriedly, tying a scarf around her chilled face.

 

Mrs. Han smacks her shoulder, grinning.

 

"I guess we'll just ~have to accept another son," she says with exaggerated suffering.

 

Smiling, Mrs. Park checks her boarding pass, then bows at a ninety-degree angle. "…I'm sorry that—"

 

Mrs. Han wraps her in a tight embrace. "Jaejun wants to add him to our family registry."

 

Mrs. Park boards the plane in tears.

 

*

 

The balcony is crowded and loud.

 

Mrs. Park dips her feet in a tiny kiddy pool, fanning herself with an English paperback.

 

"Halmeoni," a little one whines, tugging at Mrs. Park's skirt, "appa said to come get you."

 

Affectionately, Mrs. Park pats the girl's messy little pigtails.

 

"Which appa."


	3. mixed

  * secret kinks [homin, jaechun]



* * *

 

One day soon, probably at the outset of winter, Changmin's going to fight his way into a popular western bakery, at some ungodly pre-dawn hour, semi-politely squeezing between shivering old ladies and hungover university part-timers, the latter of which he'll unabashedly push out of the way because they remind him of the worst of kyuline.

 

His gaze will be scary and unwavering and completely focused on a bakery case near the nervous-looking cashier, where a neat platter of toffee fudge brownies will shine like… no, Changmin's good at science—the brownies will _reflect_ like diamonds, glaze still transparent and twinkling under dim fluorescent lights.

 

He will have, of course, looked up the nutritional information prior to dragging himself here because why would he waste time disguising himself and rising before time even starts if the calorie count weren't something preposterous like 870 for the caramel toppings alone.

 

He will, at some point, be reaching over to accept his box of gooey future heart disease and the ugly huge scarf he may or may not have stolen from Yunho will slip off his face and his sunglasses will inch down his nose and that's why he'll accidentally catch a glimpse of the dude next to him, who'll be very busy smiling maniacally at his own box one register over.

 

A well-conditioned _hyung...?_ will slip out before Changmin will be able to stop himself and the dude, decked out in full totally conspicuous _I'm definitely an idol pretending not to be an idol please do not admire or give me affection_ camouflage, will turn, squint through his tinted glasses, and wrinkle his nose awkwardly, all, _oh, it's you_.

 

About now is when a couple of the university students will start sobering up and Changmin won't want to risk being recognized so he'll wrap his gloved fingers around Jaejoong's unattractively skinny wrist and drag him to a secluded corner where he will threaten bodily injury if he so much as breathes a word of this to—

 

But Jaejoong's just gonna look a little sheepish, all pink cheeks, winter bangs poking under a beanie he probably stole from that other beanie-loving freak, breath misting, and he'll proffer his box innocently at Changmin and say, in a hushed, confidential tone, "Changminnie, I wanna get him fat."

 

Changmin will freeze and try to bite back a sudden rush of camaraderie but he'll at least lean in conspiratorially and whisper back, "Same."

 

They'll exchange knowing glances and flee the bakery together, detouring into some abandoned park and dodging a suspicious city worker trying to keep tabs on their littering, and so they'll claim the frozen swings and discuss strategies.

 

Of course, Jaejoong will be stupid as usual and argue that carbs are the fastest way but Changmin will roll his eyes and argue that Yunho burns carbs like a school incinerator because his fucking DNA triggers him to dance all the fucking time even in completely inappropriate situations like someone's fucking great-great-aunt's funeral, and Jaejoong will get this dumb faraway look on his face and Changmin will remember that Yoochun doesn't fucking dance at all so he'll give an acquiescing little nod, all, "Yeah, hyung, you go on with your carbs."

 

Determined to help, Jaejoong will lay out all his knowledge of proteins and fats and how if Changmin's main focus is the... _moobs, right, you're totally into those?... I mean, it's fine, it's not like I have room to judge_ , he'll need to keep up with the sweets and maybe he'll even suggest adding at least one frozen drink per day and _here is where you buy them_ , and Changmin will feel a little guilty but also a little happy and he'll quietly nudge Jaejoong's boot with his and he won't even think less of the guy just 'cause he's into weird shit like chubby chipmunk cheeks.

 

Comfortable, they'll sit for a while until the working class starts unenthusiastically stumbling out of warm homes and giving them envious angry _get a job loser kids_ glares and then Changmin will jump to his feet first, nose numb with cold, and he'll narrow his eyes at Jaejoong with a parting, "Yah, if you tell anyone..."

 

The corners of Jaejoong's mouth will turn up and he'll throw out a lame peace sign and click his tongue and try to wink but will only succeed in looking kind of messed up and Changmin will feel warm all over despite the arctic chill pressing down on him like a sheet of ice.

 

He'll walk away with a satisfied smug little smirk, clutching his box of toffee fudge brownies and clumsily checking his phone. Eleven steps in, he'll stop. Scowling, he'll march right back to the park and the swings where Jaejoong will be moping and looking up the calorie content of prawns, and Changmin will just stick out his phone, huffy and totally unconcerned, and demand Jaejoong put in his new number.

 

But only so they can exchange recipes, of course.


	4. homin

  * fake dating [homin]



* * *

 

It would totally be Yunho's fault.

 

Somewhere in Tokyo, where, let's pretend, gay marriage would suddenly be legal, he'd get mobbed by a small army of fangirls, as usual, except this time, there'd also be a moderately-sized crowd of fairly-attractive fanboys.

 

And Yunho would be extra polite to these idiot boys because that's sort of a rising majority of his fanclub, all the while frantically sending mental _Changminnie help me Changminnie they're touching weird stuff Changminnie you bastard why aren't you helping_.

 

Changmin would coolly ignore all of this, of course, because what is he, invisible or gross or what the fuck even, until some dude whipped out a massive sparkling ring and shoved it in Yunho's stunned face and since Yunho is super easily distracted by shiny things, Changmin would just have to casually step in, as loath as he would be, because, really, if Yunho decided to get hitched to some ugly little man with hairy fingers and chipped nails, Changmin would be... mildly inconvenienced professionally, okay.

 

So Changmin'd have to gingerly peel the ugly little dude off Yunho, possibly in the same way super robots laser sheet metal off of car roofs, and obviously he'd have to lie, in the least incriminating and homicidal and possessive way possible, and say, "Look, this here is mine, you can't fucking have it but you can have a _concussion_ if you touch what's mine again—"

 

Which would probably cause a major traffic jam and the cancellation of several regularly-scheduled TV programs because nobody ships homin more than Japan and Yunho respectively ship homin, and then Changmin would be subjected to just... horrible, awful things, like awkwardly holding Yunho's hand during talk shows and occasionally paying for his lunch and being forced to exchange birthday presents again which is just fucking bullshit because _last time_ , Changmin bought Yunho a whole thing of pirate Harry Potter legos and Yunho wasn't _at all_ impressed, how the fuck.

 

And like, at some point, Changmin would have to reluctantly call his mom to explain this is all ~fake dating, come on, at which point, his mother would tell him if there's somehow ~fake grandchildren on the way, she maybe, possibly, definitely has a few names picked out, and also maybe a storage unit full of baby clothes that she's already perhaps sent a picture of to everyone in the family and a couple of neighbors in Taiwan.

 

Later, Changmin would have a moment of pure stupid and he'd repeat this conversation to Yunho, most likely over a fake dinner for two on a fake couch Yunho bought because Changmin liked the way the cushions reminded him of breaded drumsticks, and Yunho would just abruptly pause, lower his chopsticks, and earnestly suggest they maybe try having some fake sex, as well, 'cause why the fuck not and because Changmin's mom sent Yunho a picture, too, and there were really cute little shoes and hats for toddlers and babies.

 

Annoyed as fuck, Changmin would remind Yunho that hyung, it's fucking anatomically impossible for two dudes to make babies, but Yunho's eyes would get all dark and stupid and he'd promise, "No, Changminnie, hyung will work _hard_ , just let me."

 

At which point, Changmin would just have to fucking give up because, honestly, he's always had a really hard time faking _anything_ around Yunho.

 

And 'cause, fine, the little shoes and hats were kinda fucking cute.


	5. jaechun

  * sageuk AU [jaechun]



* * *

 

Sageuk-style AU where Jaejoong is a whiny famous international idol, addicted to social media, an unreasonable number of compliments, and stupidly expensive alcohol.

 

So one day, after pissing off his long-suffering coordi noona, he's magically transported to early Goryeo, which is totally fine, right, even though he's immediately ambushed by a bunch of drunken rebels and mistaken for a Yuan woman and promptly loaded onto a dirty wagon as a decoy bride and sent off to a high-ranking but reclusive monarch.

 

Our monarch's not at all cool with being forced to marry some chick he's never met but then... the chick he's never met is kind of really fucking gorgeous despite her lack of a rack and, uh... her abundance of muscles and... eeh, dude parts, wow.

 

But since not having to perform husbandly duties is a thing our Yoochunnie-wangseja is really into, he keeps his mouth shut so he can continue hiding in his quarters, by himself, all alone, wallowing and wishing someone would hurry the fuck up and invent golf.

 

Within two days probably, Jaejoong gets the shakes and tries to download instagram on his shitty phone and almost has a mental breakdown because, wow, life is just not worth living if you can't update your fans on all the things and the goddamn thing is at 18% and he's only barely just _unlocked_ _the screen_ , so he stomps into ~forbidden territory to throw a tantrum and toss the stupid thing at Yoochun, who becomes ridiculously fascinated by its piano app.

 

The 18% battery life stretches for, like, four episodes because what is continuity, and Jaejoong teaches Yoochun how to play and maybe makes some fourth-wall comment about how it feels like, in another life, the roles were somehow reversed or something a little less pandering.

 

Yoochun ignores him because he likes the phone way better than he likes Jaejoong.

 

Anyway, I guess the plot should advance at this point 'cause it can't all be unicorns and rainbows and sitting by the lake and giggling and feeding each other like the gross idiots they've been for ten fucking years and they can't elope and make a living by fermenting their own alcohol out of potatoes (or I guess rice, if you wanna be geographically and historically accurate which I don't), so there's probably some palace coup d'etat in progress, maybe some arsenic-laced persimmons, a couple of jealous chambermaids, one scheming royal doctor, and an invading Yuan army 'cause they're like, wait, what happened to the bride _we_ sent, has anyone heard from her lately, wow, I hope she's okay, these are some dangerous times we're living in.

 

Of course, the whiny famous international idol has, at this point, learned his lesson about being modest and humble and grateful, and also he's fallen in love so hard his IQ has dropped by half (and Yoochun's decided he wants to perform all the husbandly duties, all the time), and so Jaejoong promises to buy Yoochun a piano, to buy him _all the fucking pianos_ if he escapes back to the future with him, but Yoochun's like, nah, I got a dynasty to defend, etc., stupid noble idiot shit.

 

And then very sad stuff happens because, let's face it, we love it when these two cry, and the ratings skyrocket and everyone subscribes to this awesome cable channel, and there's some lap cradling and anguished too-late confessions and some more tears, and then we fade to black and like fast-forward a thousand years to modern times, where there's two cute boys meeting for the first time at an audition and one of them looks like a thug who unironically whispers ~swaggie at passersby and the other one is like, "Long time no see, jacKASS IF YOU DIE THIS TIME I WILL KILL YOU."


	6. homin

  * sex pollen/fuck or die/aliens made them do it [homin]



* * *

 

On the set of Humanoids, Yunho trips over a protruding piece of cardboard, goes careening into a nearby wall, and accidentally rips through a prop panel, which makes him stumble through some weird shimmering portal, and so he ends up on an alien spaceship, why not.

 

"Welcome, humanoid one," some misshapen blob greets, hovering above him with an air of nervous importance. "We shall wait for humanoid two before we begin."

 

Yunho squints, then sits up, wondering if the seven shots of espresso this morning were a bit of an overkill.

 

"WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU, WHO THE FUCK JUST TRIPS INTO SOME FUCKING ALTERNATE UNIVERSE ON A FUCKING WORK DAY—"

 

"Humanoid two is here," the blob announces needlessly.

 

Frazzled, Changmin bursts through the rapidly closing portal, then pauses, taking in his shiny metal surroundings.

 

"Yunho."

 

Yunho jumps to his feet and dusts himself off. "Changminnie, how many shots of espresso did you have this morning."

 

Changmin narrows one eye in contemplation. "None."

 

"So we're definitely on a spaceship. In reality. This is happening."

 

Annoyed, Changmin curls a bunch of long fingers into Yunho's glittery jacket and forces him closer. "Let's go. They won't pay for overtime."

 

"Eh, humanoids, nooo, you mustn't depart," the blob whines, waving a flabby appendage-like mass at the translucent floor beneath their feet, "before you consummate."

 

Innocently, Yunho scrunches up his face. "Before we consummate what?"

 

The blob pauses awkwardly. "...each other..."

 

Changmin rips out a whole thing of diagnostics and chucks it at the blob. "Hyung. Let's. Go."

 

Yunho would like to go but his feet aren't totally cooperating.

 

As though controlled by invisible strings, they're mostly just inching toward Changmin and then Yunho's arms are lifting without his consent and then somehow his fingers are tangling in Changmin's awesome hair?

 

"I have prepared several practical surfaces," the blob explains helpfully, "for when you mount humanoid two."

 

Changmin's kind of physically frozen but his mouth is open, lips stretching into a disgusted snarl, teeth and gums bared, and fuck, Changmin's gonna do a murder.

 

" _Why the fuck would he mount me_."

 

The blob brings up a large projector, filling the space between them with cuts of an earlier dance routine.

 

"I have observed you for hours," it reasons anxiously, "and you meet all the mated humanoid requirements my supervisor listed as—" it trails off, deflating in despair, "...was that... was that not a mating ritual."

 

"...it was dance practice..."

 

"No matter," the blob sighs, floating across the metallic floor and turning a camera-like thing at their faces. "My final thesis depends on this so please proceed with the..." it seems to check some sort of internal database, then instructs, "topping, humanoid one."

 

The invisible strings holding Changmin in place seem to loosen because he's kind of clawing at Yunho's forearm, possibly drawing blood.

 

"What makes you think I'd let _anyone_ top me in _any_ fucking universe—”

 

"...well, my data indicates humanoid one is older," the blob argues, possibly staring at a large electronic tablet suspended from the ceiling, "is that not typically how humanoids decide such things."

 

"I'M _TALLER_ ," Changmin hollers, then pauses. "Not that I... we... use that to decide, but... where was I going with this."

 

To hell, Yunho's pretty sure, but he's also pretty determined to get back home and sleep off whatever psychedelic hallucination is in progress, so he squares his shoulders and prepares to just maybe mount Changmin—

 

The strings loosen completely.

 

"You are wearing yellow, humanoid two," the blob tells Changmin with insistence, "is that not the color of submission."

 

Changmin punches a hole through one of the giant gears hanging next to him.

 

The ship's lights flicker momentarily.

 

"IF YOU WANT US TO FUCKING HAVE SEX, IT'S GOING TO HAPPEN ON _MY_ FUCKING TERMS—"

 

Yunho scowls.

 

"Changminnie," he interrupts amicably, turning one palm up in a _what the fuck_ gesture, "we're not having sex."

 

Cheeks dark, pupils blown, Changmin freezes. "Right. Yeah. That's… that's what I meant to say."

 

"Because if we had sex," Yunho says with a low growl, "it wouldn't be on your terms."

 

Changmin narrows his eyes. "Why not."

 

Yunho pauses.

 

The blob lays out a whole thing of popcorn and leans back in its chair-like invisible throne, popping kernels, spectator-style.

 

"...why not," Changmin repeats, taking an aggressive step forward. "Hyung. Why the hell _not_."

 

Yunho's pants are kind of unusually tight. Hot. Fucked up.

 

"Because… I'm… older and… you're wearing yellow."

 

Tense, Changmin invades his space, breath ghosting across Yunho's cheek. "Yeah. And I'm taller. And you can't say no to me."

 

The lego museum Yunho's bought Changmin can kinda attest to that, so Yunho just turns angry eyes at the blob and points an accusing finger at the camera and grits out, "Listen, alien-ssi, wait here, the two of have to go home and settle this like men—"

 

The blob falters. "But I have to write a five page paper on humanoid topping practices by tomorrow..."

 

"You'll have _ten_ pages by the time I'm done," Yunho vows, grabbing Changmin by the wrist and dragging him toward a materializing portal.

 

" _Fifteen_ ," Changmin promises under his breath, halfheartedly trying to shake Yunho off.

 

His fingers slip around Yunho's belt-loop.

 

Yunho's mouth twitches.

 

Forty-nine and a half pages later, the blob is awarded whatever equivalent its planet has of the Nobel, IDK, Peace Prize, why not.


	7. homin

  * WWII AU [homin]



 

* * *

 

In the middle of May, just as 1945 slowly eases into a heatwave, Yunho's plucked from a Manchukuo mine and shipped off to mainland Japan.

 

He's not too upset about it because it does possibly guarantee him one meal a day and plenty of fresh air away from mine shafts and impossible quotas and dead birds.

 

He's not too happy, however, about getting stationed so near a combat garrison.

 

'Cause, really, he's only here for industrial expansion.

 

He doesn't like guns and rifles and bullets and war.

 

"What are you doing."

 

Yunho looks up from his can of... something barely edible, scrambling to remember enough Japanese to reply.

 

"Dinner," he tries, wiping grime off his face and cringing at his accent.

 

The scrawny scowling kid towering above him raises an eyebrow. "You're Korean."

 

Yunho's face stretches into a bright happy smile. "Oh."

 

The kid shifts his weight awkwardly, hoisting a rifle higher on his shoulder and eyeing the can with poorly-hidden interest.

 

"Hyung..." he mumbles tentatively and it's been _forever_ since Yunho's been called that so he easily proffers the thing at the kid and grins, "Want half?"

 

 

*

 

The kid's got a name but it doesn't match the kanji on his uniform, so during the day, Yunho tries very hard not to wrap his fingers around the wire fence and shout for ~Changminnie to come see him.

 

But at night, when Yunho's stomach's growling and Changmin's giving him the most miserable puppy dog eyes, Yunho laughs and tsks his name on repeat.

 

 

*

 

"Why are you in Japan," Yunho asks one night, yawning at the campfire between them.

 

Changmin makes a face. “My enlistment was 'voluntary,' " he grumbles and Yunho never asks again.

 

*

 

Changmin trails after him into a sake house.

 

Yunho holds out an arm, slamming the kid to a stop. "How old are you."

 

"Twenty," Changmin says ~convincingly.

 

Yunho turns his head to stare.

 

His nose brushes Changmin's cheek.

 

"Seventeen," Changmin mumbles and escorts himself out.

 

 

*

 

Their shadows tangle at dusk.

 

Yunho heaves a heavy sigh, drenched in sweat, pickaxe wedged between a jagged slab of stone.

 

"Changminnie, don't you have some... military stuff to do?"

 

Changmin shrugs, fiddling with an ammo pouch. "They sent me to keep an eye out on you."

 

 

*

 

Changmin tracks him down by a dying creek.

 

"That's disgusting."

 

Amused, Yunho splashes water onto his bare chest, dragging his palm down a deep bruise. "The cable drum collapsed today."

 

"No, just..." Changmin's eyes trace a path down Yunho's side and back, lingering on Yunho's belt and hip, "...no. Sorry." He plops down on a large stone, toying with his too-short sleeves. "I'm sorry."

 

With a confused little grimace, Yunho steps out of the water and sits down by Changmin's feet, elbows on his knees.

 

He gives himself a good hard shake, drenching Changmin with droplets of dirty creek water.

 

Grossed out, Changmin wipes at his face. "I hate coming here."

 

"So why do you."

 

Changmin averts his eyes and clumsily jumps to his feet. He kicks at a pebble and complains, "It's my job."

 

Yunho gets up too and opens his mouth to argue but a big fat moth flutters by and lands on his boot.

 

Looking revolted, Changmin smites it down with a quick snap of Yunho's discarded shirt.

 

Yunho makes a small noise of protest.

 

"Didn't your mother ever tell you not to kill moths," he frowns, crouches down, and pokes at the twitching insect.

 

Changmin doesn't reply.

 

Yunho glances up, bottom lip jutting out, accent thickening. "It's 'cause they're carrying souls."

 

Unimpressed, Changmin levels his gaze with Yunho's. "Hyung. That's dragonflies."

 

Yunho pauses to consider. "No, I'm pretty sure it's moths."

 

Changmin's lips twitch but his voice is flat and annoyed. "Look, my soul's not gonna get carried by some stupid moth."

 

Yunho pouts. "Mine will."

 

Changmin pales. "You're not going to die, hyung."

 

Smiling, Yunho spreads his arms wide to the night sky. "My soul's gonna get carried by a whoooole cluster of moths, Changminnie, you'll see."

 

Exasperated, Changmin buries long scrawny fingers into Yunho's forearm. "Hyung. A group of moths is called an eclipse."

 

Yunho's features soften.

 

 

*

 

"FIX YOUR GODDAMN BOOTS."

 

"I'm older than you by two years," Yunho reasons helplessly, palms turned up in a pacifying gesture, "you shouldn't talk to—"

 

"YOU CAN'T JUST LEAVE THEM LYING AROUND LIKE THAT."

 

Yunho's boots are strewn by his cot, one hobnailed sole sticking to a bedpost, laces frayed beyond repair, most of the buckles missing, the leather cracked in spots and permanently darkened by coal—

 

Yunho fixes his boots.

 

 

*

 

"Hyung."

 

"But Changminnie..."

 

"Hyuuung."

 

Morose, Yunho glances at half a smoked hock on his bowed metal plate. He hasn't had meat in a year and this barely even _qualifies_ as meat and—

 

He lets Changmin eat the whole thing.

 

 

*

 

Summer wanes.

 

There's a distinct crunch of leaves under Yunho's boots as he crosses the camp to deafening whispers of _the war is almost over_ and _victory is within reach_.

 

It doesn't matter to Yunho.

 

Stay or go—as long as he can eat and live and play and see Changmin once in a while—occasionally—sometimes—daily.

 

As long as he can see Changmin all the time.

 

 

*

 

"They're moving us west."

 

Startled, Yunho drops his shovel into a ditch behind the barracks.

 

He adjusts his hat to keep out the rain and makes a face at Changmin. "West where?"

 

"I don't know," Changmin says casually. His hair has grown out way past infantry regulations. His bangs are matted to the side of his face and he looks twelve years old and Yunho's gut twists. "Hiroshima, I guess?"

 

"Where's that," Yunho asks stupidly, bending to retrieve his shovel.

 

"I don't know," Changmin repeats, snappish. "My garrison's moving out on the first of August—hyung... just... please."

 

He leans against the barracks, boring dark eyes into Yunho's, indifferent to the downpour.

 

Yunho almost says _I'll give you all my food if you stay_ but what actually comes out is, "When will you be back."

 

Changmin looks away. "They didn’t say."

 

Yunho wants to congratulate him or maybe encourage him but he says, in a humiliatingly broken voice, "What am I supposed to do."

 

"You can... I don't know..." frustrated, Changmin slams his palm into the wooden wall, "...wait for me."

 

 

*

 

Yunho waits.

 

 

*

 

And then they tell him he doesn't have to.

 

 

*

 

The first night back in Gwangju, Yunho scales a summit at twilight.

 

It's a familiar old slope behind his father's house, fourteen feet high and painted with a thick layer of moss. There's a small clearing by the edge of a cliff, tucked into a mountain on one side and sheltered by a cluster of thick, bent trees on another.

 

Yunho unlaces his boots.

 

He lays them down, neat and tidy, properly, sole to sole.

 

And then he sprawls across the damp grass, hands under his head, and stares up at the cresting moon.

 

He doesn't think about being hungry.

 

He doesn't think about waiting.

 

He doesn't think.

 

A small burst of light catches his attention.

 

And then another.

 

Yunho turns his head to the trees.

 

A wide sweep of tall weeds sways in the breeze at their roots and there's an entire flight of fireflies crowding around the blades, flashing in a synchronized sort of rhythm, like rapid little heartbeats, and Yunho's breath catches.

 

The clearing lights up with hundreds of them.

 

A cluster of lights twines through the leaves, up the mountain, down the cliff, around the cobblestone path, twists and taps and pecks at Yunho's feet.

 

A brief flash to his left, a short burst to his right, an entire sparkling chain interrupting the darkness.

 

Slowly, the queue rises, pulsing brighter, faster, and then they're all gone, quietly, at once.

 

Yunho sits up, head in his hands, heart splintered.

 

And then he smiles.


	8. minsu

  * kusare-en (undesired but fated lifelong bond) [minsu]



 

 

* * *

 

 

Junsu hatches super early, at, like, eleven in the morning.

 

He's clearly the first 'cause all the other eggs are still solid, uncracked, sticky with molted fluff.

 

Satisfied, he nudges against the membrane still trapping him inside and kicks one webbed foot through the shell. It shatters around a shank and splits down one side, releasing his achy left wing.

 

Dazed, he struggles until his beak is out then lays his neck down to nap because being born is tiring.

 

An hour later, he snaps awake and huffs a little and drags a heavy rump out of the shell, scraping the wide part of it against a sharp piece, and woo, he's done, he's out, he's first, first, first.

 

"...what's wrong with your butt," someone asks.

 

A tall, lanky gosling is towering above Junsu, one featherless wing folded in mild disgust.

 

Junsu deflates.

 

Not first.

 

*

 

"You're doing it wrong."

 

Junsu pauses midstep, glancing down the train tracks with an exasperated sigh. "Don't boss me around."

 

Changmin shrugs one wing. "I'm just saying..."

 

Junsu plops his rump between two sun-warmed rails. "How can I _walk_ wrong?"

 

Haughty, Changmin stares him down. "Well, for one, you're not _walking_." He scuffs a clean, posh nail against a rusted pike. "You're gonna get hit by a train. You're gonna get hit by all the trains."

 

Junsu shifts awkwardly, straining his ears for incoming danger, then picks at his paunch with a pout. "Didn't know you cared."

 

Changmin balks.

 

"Yeah," he hisses and flaps a twitching wing at the distant horizon, "I care about the _train_. Your butt's gonna derail it—"

 

"—Changminnie's right," one of the adults booms happily, stomping over and herding them both off the tracks. "You shouldn't play here."

 

Junsu drags his feet, beak twisted unpleasantly.

 

*

 

"Move."

 

Junsu snuggles closer.

 

"MOVE."

 

Groggy, Junsu burrows under Changmin's wing. "No."

 

Someone's foot kicks him in the face as an entire row of goslings nests closer.

 

Changmin ducks an incoming tail, then pauses.

 

"Move this way," he amends and shifts Junsu across as a shield, butt-first.

 

Junsu falls asleep mid-shuffle.

 

*

 

Junsu's in line after Changmin to take their first flight.

 

One of their teachers inspects the formation, smoothing down messy feathers and tucking in stray tips and then the first three goslings are taking off and Junsu forgets himself, slips ahead of Changmin and jumps off, spreads his wings wide and just gives himself to the winds.

 

*

 

"Why can't you do it like Junsu."

 

Junsu chances a glance at an entire gaggle of disapproving adults huddled around Changmin.

 

"Just move your body _with_ the water," one adult says, expertly dipping into the pond and resurfacing with grace.

 

Falteringly, Changmin moves his scrawny body, flatlining against a tiny wave.

 

The adults exchange a silent look and disperse, a fed-up murmur of _forget it_ cascading off their backs.

 

*

 

Later, when the sun sets behind a thick copse of reddening trees, Junsu finds Changmin in a small pond, miles away from the nest.

 

His feathers are matted with mud, his wings are bent uncomfortably, and there's a deep gash hollowing out his back toe.

 

Distracted by the sight, Junsu steps on a twig.

 

Changmin snaps his head up, eyes darkening.

 

"Shut up."

 

Junsu spreads both wings to the sky with a soft sigh. "Changmin, I can—"

 

Changmin kicks muddy water at him. "You can _go away_."

 

*

 

"Changmin's better," one of the girls says.

 

Junsu rolls his eyes, trapped behind a bench and surrounded by a horde of giggling goslings.

 

"But Junsu's cuter," another one whines, energetically plucking a blade of grass out of a cracked stone.

 

Hidden, Junsu preens.

 

"Wrooooong," two of the girls snort, a flurry of feathers scattering above them, "his butt's too big and his voice is weird and he's short and—"

 

"Fiiiine," the first girl agrees, "Changmin's way better."

 

*

 

One night, Junsu follows the train tracks by himself.

 

He waddles down a small deserted section, careful and alert, obediently looking out for trains and people and predators but before he knows it, he's lost himself in the feeling, forgot everything and let his wings spread to their full span and then he's somehow taking off, just flying, soaring above the tracks, the backwinds and the moon behind him.

 

He travels ten miles before he calms down enough to reason.

 

He flies back at a slow, steady, reluctant pace.

 

*

 

"Changminnie's top of the class again," the teacher croons.

 

Yeah.

 

Changmin knows everything about all kinds of wild grasses and the tiny differences between northeastern and northwestern winds and how to test the water quality from the air at dawn during a hurricane. He knows how to roll poisonous slugs in dirt and twigs before picking at them, how to chase humans away from nests, how to groom himself and others.

 

He knows why and where all the things are.

 

He knows everything.

 

Junsu just knows how to fly.

 

*

 

Fourteen miles away from the nest, Junsu accidentally clips his wing on a mountain's edge.

 

He plummets through a thick canopy of trees, unstoppable.

 

It hurts and his heart is hammering behind his breastbone and his head spins with awful terrible thoughts but he lands safely in a moss-covered clearing, deep within an unfamiliar forest.

 

He explores it for a week.

 

*

 

" _Never do that again_ ," one of the adults yells, swatting at Junsu's head.

 

Another one whacks at his rump, honking out in distress.

 

Scratched up and achy, Junsu bows his head and catches Changmin's eye.

 

Changmin stares him down silently.

 

*

 

The shallowest pond by the nest freezes over.

 

Junsu's never seen anything like this, so he spends a whole day just poking holes in the ice and skating around the rim.

 

"You're gonna fall in and die."

 

Junsu grins.

 

"Just admit you care~" he tells Changmin with a smug twirl.

 

"Yeah," Changmin grumbles, "I care about the pond. If your corpse decomposes in it, the water's gonna taste like shit in the spring—"

 

Laughing, Junsu weaves around him and violently nudges Changmin onto the ice.

 

Changmin squawks, loses his balance, and flaps his wings as he skids across. "If _both_ of our corpses—"

 

Junsu smothers him under his wing.

 

*

 

"Move."

 

Sleepy, Junsu squints one eye open.

 

"Move," Changmin repeats, and without warning, crawls under Junsu's tail feathers.

 

Junsu kicks him a little but falls asleep instantly, tangled up.

 

 

*

 

"Our migratory cousins," their teacher says, guiding them down a thistle-covered hill, "sometimes do become resident geese—"

 

"If they are injured," Changmin supplements haughtily, way at the beginning of the line.

 

Way at the back of the line, Junsu pats a passing chipmunk and asks, awkwardly nonchalant, "...do resident geese ever become migratory..."

 

The teacher stops in her tracks, forcing the entire trailing line to halt to a messy stop.

 

"Idiot," Changmin drawls, turning a long neck to snap his beak at Junsu, "resident geese don't know _how_ to migrate."

 

With a huff, Junsu squares his shoulders and shakes his tail feathers.

 

"I thought you knew how to do everything."

 

*

 

"Changmin's sooooo hot," one of the girls wails at Junsu, butting her head into his neck. "Can you hook me up or what?"

 

Junsu glances at his pile of breadcrumbs with distaste. "You're ruining my appetite."

 

The girl headbutts him harder. "Those are for the winter stocks anyway, why are you eating them instead of stashing them with the rest of the—"

 

Junsu inhales a whole thing of breadcrumbs to shut her up.

 

Grossed out, she waves him off with a soft-lined wing. "Just tell Changmin I like him."

 

"You don't like him," Junsu argues, annoyed. "You like that he'll probably be leading the formation next spring."

 

The girl fans herself, gazing coyly into the distance, past the withering treetops and rising snowbanks. "I wasn't aware of... that... at all..."

 

Exasperated, Junsu shoos her away.

 

*

 

"Apparently, you're hot."

 

Changmin falls through a hole in the ice.

 

He scrambles out, panicked and wet.

 

"...so," Junsu adds, suffering from second-hand embarrassment, "can you, future leader, maybe go and tell your fangirls to stop bugging me?"

 

Changmin falters.

 

Then he shakes the water off and mumbles, "Help me gather stuff."

 

Junsu blinks.

 

"If you didn't keep ditching class," Changmin sighs, rounding him with an air of annoyance, "you'd know we have to fortify the nest before winter sets."

 

Awkwardly, Junsu stuffs his beak with twigs, mumbling around rotting leaves, "Why do I gotta, your mouth is big enough to carry all of—"

 

"Yours is bigger."

 

"No, yours."

 

"Yours."

 

"Yours plus infinity."

 

"Yours plus infinity plus the size of your butt."

 

*

 

They bring back four times as many twigs as the rest of the goslings combined.

 

*

 

The last formal flight of the year begins with a flurry of snowflakes.

 

Junsu's new spot in formation is far left flank, next to two adults and an adopted gosling.

 

He follows the old leader's cues perfectly; complements the flock like a force of nature; blends seamlessly into the formation.

 

He feels strong and undefeatable and a part of a whole.

 

But.

 

*

 

"Where ya goin'."

 

Startled, Junsu stumbles, moonlight shining a path before him.

 

"I'm..." he starts nervously but it's just Changmin and Changmin doesn't—won't—care. "I'm gonna go south."

 

Changmin yawns, waving a bored wing in Junsu's direction. "Be back by morning. We gotta practice the—"

 

Junsu glances at the nest behind them, full to brimming with families sprawled atop each other.

 

His heart thumps a little brokenly, but his wings itch to spread.

 

"No," he says calmly. "I want to leave."

 

Changmin freezes.

 

"You can't," he says at last.

 

"I'll be back in the spring," Junsu explains earnestly and doesn't know _why_ except that Changmin's face is weird and worried and not at all right. "I'll come back before the goslings—"

 

"No need," Changmin snaps, stomping one foot into the ground.

 

Junsu watches the snowflakes melt around it, then brings his head up. "It's just for one season."

 

"I don't care."

 

Junsu makes an impatient noise, clawing at the frost. "Changmin, there's so much out there—so many things we haven't seen or heard or smelled or tasted—"

 

"Then just fucking _go_."

 

Junsu steps closer, softly laying his neck on Changmin's breastbone. "The horizon stretches forever and we can do whatever we want and there's nothing _wrong_ with—"

 

Changmin shrugs him off.

 

Junsu knows the answer, knows it with every part of himself, but he says this anyway,

 

"Can't we go together."

 

*

 

In the spring, when ice starts to melt down the mountainside, trickling into lakes and rivers, Junsu feels the inexplicable urge to go home.

 

He flies north for days and days, watching the grass gradients shift, the landscape even out, the forests thicken.

 

He lands, weary but pleased, just as the last egg has hatched.

 

It's a scrawny little thing, featherless and ugly, and Junsu's chest swells with pride and affection.

 

"Geese that fall out of formation," drones a contemptuous voice, "have no right to—"

 

Junsu burrows under Changmin's wing.


	9. jaechun

  * secret kinks: booking one room with two beds for three JYJ members [jaechun]



 

(This also partly combines the possessive!chun request from a different anon (I'm assuming) because if I don't start combining prompts soon, we'll NEVER EVER GET DONE.)

 

* * *

 

 

Junsu's had a good day.

 

A productive, fantastic, life-affirming day.

 

Leg one of their four-day tour is now officially complete and hey, not to toot his own horn, but the fans were totally _into_ him all day, noticeably way more than they were into his hyungs, which may or may not have had something to do with the copious amounts of guyliner and black nail polish he's become addicted to—

 

_Son_

 

_of_

 

_a_

 

_fucking_

 

 _BITCH_.

 

Junsu slams the door the rest of the way open.

 

"WHO BOOKED THIS HOTEL ROOM."

 

"Manager-hyung," Jaejoong replies innocently.

 

As though posing for a magazine, he's perched at the windowsill, drawing his name on the glass.

 

"Manager-hyung always books our hotel rooms," Yoochun lectures, casually squished next to Jaejoong by the window, one knee knocking rhythmically against Jaejoong's thigh.

 

Exasperated, Junsu drops his bag to the floor, contemplating a tantrum.

 

"There are only two beds," he whines.

 

He says this like he hasn't had to say it approximately seventeen times this year alone.

 

"Oh," Jaejoong muses conversationally, "we didn't notice."

 

"Well," Yoochun adds, looking bored, one sock slipping off his foot, "it's probably hard to find a room with three beds."

 

Junsu wants to scream _SO BOOK TWO ROOMS OR FUCK MAYBE BOOK THREE ROOMS BOOK SEVEN SERIOUSLY WE HAVE MONEY COME ON_ but they have a concert tomorrow and his voice is precious and this is fine, he's used to this, the trick is to just...

 

...not look.

 

Or listen.

 

Or basically use any of his five senses.

 

"Fine," he sighs, resigned, "which one's mine."

 

Yoochun's lips curve evilly. "We can play for it."

 

Junsu groans and sullenly kicks at his discarded bag. "Why? You always cheat anyway."

 

Jaejoong jumps off the windowsill and sidles up to Junsu with predatory grace.

 

"Ah, that doesn't sound like Yoochunnie at all," he smiles, casting a slow, sultry look over his shoulder. "Yoochunnie would never cheat."

 

Backlit by the setting sun, Yoochun's features darken, gaze fixed on Jaejoong's face. "I'd never cheat."

 

Junsu feels bile rise. "...let's just play."

 

Victorious, Yoochun slinks off the windowsill and joins them in the center of the room, hand fisted in preparation, eyes crazy.

 

"Gawi bawi bo," he and Jaejoong say in unison and throw identical jji at Junsu's mook and Junsu knows what's coming.

 

"Oh," Jaejoong mouths, feigning surprise, "I guess we'll have to share again, Yoochunnie."

 

"I guess," Yoochun heaves a heavy exaggerated sigh, shrugging one shoulder. "We should really learn how to play better."

 

Unamused, Junsu gives them a dirty look, then drop-kicks his bag all the way to the bathroom.

 

He deadbolts himself inside, admires his reflection in the mirror for a couple of minutes, sends out an impromptu twitter selca because the lighting is just really flattering and because his fans are probably starved for an update, preens at the instant mass influx of _oppa tAKE ME_ and _oppa is so pretty_ , then murmurs a little prayer for his soul.

 

He'd pray for his hyungs' souls, too, but there's just... no saving those.

 

By the time he catwalks out of the bathroom in a waft of steam and charisma, sparkling clean and bundled up in a warm fuzzy robe, Jaejoong's nowhere to be seen and Yoochun's got the sheets pulled up to his neck.

 

"Uh, that... that was a quick shower," Yoochun greets, voice strained, forehead shiny.

 

Junsu glances at his watch.

 

...how is one hour and forty-five minutes quick.

 

Whatever.

 

Stupidly, he ignores the danger sensors blaring in his head and makes the valiant trek to his bed.

 

It's a nice, normal bed; a good size for a nice, normal person; safely tucked in by a nice, normal alcove with nice, normal wallpaper.

 

So Junsu calculates how many hours of sleep he can get if he falls asleep _right now_ and shuffles closer.

 

"Where's hyung," he asks with a yawn because it's a habit and because he's an idiot.

 

There's an awkward pause.

 

"...he's... around..."

 

Unbothered, Junsu slips into bed and fluffs up his pillows, preferring not to process this information.

 

But he processes this information anyway when he accidentally turns on his side and catches a glimpse of Yoochun's sheets moving kind of suspiciously.

 

"NO," he warns with a high-pitched shriek, trying to keep his voice from getting scratchy, "DON'T DO THAT HERE."

 

The sheet lump stops moving.

 

"...do what..." Yoochun manages, toes curled and hanging off the edge of the mattress.

 

Huffily, Jaejoong pops his head out of the sheets, hair disheveled, face pink. "We're not doing anything."

 

Junsu wants to cry.

 

Or disband.

 

"Hyung," he commands, pointing an angry finger at Jaejoong, "I want to see space between you two at all times." He considers for a moment, then—warring between a sense of futility and cold hard determination—he grabs a pillow off his bed and stalks across the rug to stuff the thing between his hyungs.

 

Flushed and blinking, they both give him wounded glances but nope, Junsu's fallen for their _woe is me_ act way too many times.

 

There's no way in heaven or hell he's gonna get swayed by this amateur level of acting again.

 

" _Sleep_."

 

Whiny, Yoochun makes a small noise of protest while Jaejoong fixes his gaze on the pillow separating them, eyes narrowed in resentment.

 

"I can't sleep with this thing next to me," he complains but Junsu shoves the pillow deeper between them, creating a clear and definite border.

 

"You can sleep in my bed if the pillow is such a problem," Junsu offers firmly, "and I'll sleep here."

 

Jaejoong snaps his head around to glare, pupils blown with obvious jealousy, then visibly composes himself and pastes on a scary mat-hyung smile.

 

"Junsu-yah," he sings softly and Junsu breaks out in goosebumps, "you won the game. You get your own bed."

 

It's not exactly ~winning if he has to suffer the trauma of his hyungs secretly molesting each other all night, so, "Fine. Yoochunnie can take my bed and I'll sleep with you."

 

Yoochun's eyes lock on Junsu's.

 

Junsu falters immediately.

 

'Cause the only thing scarier than a crazy possessive Jaejoong is a crazy possessive Yoochun.

 

But just... no more trauma. No more stupid giggling or unclassified awful accidentally-educational noises or soul-shattering sighs, _nope_ , not again, not today.

 

" _Or_ ," he amends cautiously, "you can each get a bed and I'll sleep on the floor?"

 

Wordlessly, Yoochun chucks the pillow divider off the bed.

 

...shit.

 

Too far.

 

He's pushed Yoochun too far.

 

"Let's play another game," Yoochun says with a low growl and Junsu barely suppresses the urge to cross himself and call his mother.

 

With a curious sulk, Jaejoong sits up, sheets cascading off his gross naked chest. "What kind of game."

 

Yoochun follows, drawing his knees up and resting his elbow on his knee, jaw palmed in one hand. "The kind where we prove to our maknae we weren't doing what he thought we were doing."

 

Jaejoong makes a face. "...not that I'm not agreeing that we weren't doing what he thought we were doing, but—"

 

Surreptitiously, Junsu glances at the door.

 

On the one hand, the hallway's probably warm enough to sleep in, but on the other hand, the fangirls...

 

"—put him between us."

 

Junsu snaps to attention. "What."

 

Yoochun levels his eyes with Junsu's, uncharacteristically serious. "Get between us."

 

Junsu takes an involuntary step back. "No, hey, it's—I totally believe you. Jaejoong-hyung was reading a book under the covers and you were... counting lightbulbs on the ceiling, it's fine—"

 

Jaejoong waves him over. "Get in, Junsu-yah."

 

Miserable, Junsu opens his mouth to ask how three grown men are supposed to share a small bed but Jaejoong pulls him down, not at all gently.

 

Junsu lands face-first between two pillows.

 

Awkwardly, he scoots and fidgets until he's on his back atop the sheets, hands nervously splayed across his stomach, eyes steadfastly centered on the rotating fan above them.

 

The lights turn off.

 

On his left, Yoochun sprawls back down with a grumbled, "Sleep."

 

On his right, Jaejoong turns his back, kicking Junsu's shin in the process. "Sleep."

 

Heart thudding, Junsu stays frozen for a couple of minutes, trying not to preemptively quit the band.

 

Part of him is relieved because, wow, the last time he accidentally summoned crazy possessive Yoochun, he got shoved off a dock in subzero temperatures.

 

But the other part of him, the rational, suspicious, experienced Junsu, is freaking out.

 

Sure, absolutely no one talks about the bed thing or the spontaneous _just Yoochun and Jaejoong_ vacations or the grabby hands and the disgusting hearts in their eyes, and Junsu's fairly proficient at pretending his hyungs aren't gonna end up racing their wheelchairs down some Moldir-paneled, golf-bag cluttered corridor while celebrating their possibly-secret platinum anniversary and running away from their possibly-secret grandchildren, but come on.

 

Come on.

 

"Are you sleeping," he asks because, well, he wants his own pillow and his own bed and his own room before things inevitably escalate.

 

Neither hyung answers him.

 

So Junsu tentatively raises one hand, internally gagging at how gross this is gonna be, and rubs a slow circle down Jaejoong's shoulder blade.

 

As though there's some sort of guard sensor installed in the back of his head, Yoochun whirls around.

 

"What are you doing."

 

Junsu inspects his thumb in the near-dark, convinced he's accidentally rubbed off a part of some unnecessary tattoo. "Sorry, my hand slipped."

 

Yoochun stares long and hard, neck muscles taut with tension.

 

Junsu consoles himself with the fact that normal Yoochun does kinda love him like a brother and would never hurl him out of a hotel room window.

 

But this Yoochun...

 

"His hand slipped," Jaejoong yawns nonchalantly, still curled away.

 

Slowly, Yoochun returns to his side of the bed.

 

Junsu makes peace with dying tonight, and turns.

 

Apologizing to his mother and father and future wife, he spoons Jaejoong lightly and gently clasps his shoulder.

 

The mattress dips with the force of a panzer.

 

The lights turn on.

 

"Did your _body_ slip," Yoochun growls.

 

Oh god, Junsu can feel the wrath _radiating_ off him. Vaguely, he recalls that one time Jaejoong publicly mentioned how Yoochun's like a cute little puppy obsessed with marking his territory.

 

Yeah.

 

Except the cute little puppy's more like a menacing inu yōkai impaling heads of trespassers along fence spikes, row after row, braiding their hair and tying the ends off with bows made out of their entrails...

 

Maybe Junsu should stop reading manga.

 

And maybe he should buy Jaejoong a dictionary and underline the _actual_ definition of cute.

 

"Yoochunnie, you're making three of us sleep in one bed," Jaejoong reasons, way too calmly, still not turning around. "How else is he supposed to fit between us~"

 

Yoochun glances at Junsu, features contorted and flickering between the troll who's obviously going to mercilessly torture him during tomorrow's concert and the dude whose... secret husband is purposefully allowing himself to be touched by someone else.

 

Junsu forgets how to pray.

 

But Yoochun just rolls over and burrows into a pillow, fuming silently.

 

The sheets twitch every time he clenches his jaw.

 

...Junsu really, really, really wants his own room.

 

So he spoons closer, slides an arm down Jaejoong's side, and wraps him in a weird awkward half-embrace.

 

And then he's on the floor.

 

The impact of the kick reverberates from his tailbone straight to his skull.

 

"YAH, WHY WOULD YOU DO THAT," Jaejoong shouts with concern, leaning over the bed, ostensibly to check on Junsu's HP status like a proper worried leader.

 

...it would probably be more convincing if Jaejoong's lips weren't twitching uncontrollably and if his chest weren't heaving like he just tumbled out of some ridiculous romance novel with a bunch of horny pirates on the cover.

 

"...my foot slipped..." Yoochun grunts unapologetically.

 

Jaejoong pauses, shifting his thighs, knees sinking into the mattress.

 

It's kinda like watching Bakira get ready to pounce on Leo so Junsu gets up and dusts himself off, counting the aches along his body and promising to write a revenge song for each one.

 

"Hyung and me," Yoochun announces, not even sparing Junsu a glance, voice low and impatient, "are gonna be arguing over some... album stuff—"

 

"—so maybe you should get your own room," Jaejoong finishes hastily, licking his lips.

 

Junsu's gonna need another shower.

 

He tries to exit the room fast enough to miss the ~arguing, but his ears are stupid and perfect and so he hears Jaejoong ask if anything ~else of Yoochun's will be ~slipping tonight before slamming the door shut behind him, clad only in a rumpled robe and bruises.

 

Junsu contemplates his life and his choices for a moment, wondering how to flag down a concierge without being spotted by anyone with a cellphone, then takes a deep breath and sets off.

 

The door down the hall opens violently.

 

"Junsu-yah, _thank you_!" Jaejoong pants, popping his head out.

 

He's already covered in scratches and deep purpling bites and gross. Gross. Fuck.

 

"Hyung," Junsu pleads desperately, hissing down the empty hallway, "please, you need to stop booking rooms with only two—"

 

"No," Jaejoong grins, eyes glazed over, and slams the door shut again.

 

Junsu glances down at his feet.

 

They're bare and cold and sad.

 

But they know their way to the front desk.

 

Grinning, Junsu jogs up the staircase, robes flapping behind him.

 

His feet also know the way to the hotel's penthouse.

 

Courtesy of Jaejoong-hyung's gold card.


	10. homin

  * apology ficlet for anon [homin]



* * *

 

It takes Minjun forever to figure out adults have _names_.

  
It takes him maybe too long to realize not all dads are called _Changminnie_ or _YOU!!_ , and that some kids have moms and so he toddles his way to the couch and climbs between appaone and appatwo and places a calm hand on appaone's knee and asks,

 

"Where did I come from."

 

Appaone chokes on his noodles.

 

"Uh," he manages. "Well." He lowers his bowl to his lap, turning serious eyes to Minjun. "You see. When... a man... and a woman?...—"

 

Appatwo kicks him across the couch.

 

"We got you on sale at Lotte," he says evenly, picks out a piece of chicken off appaone's bowl with a pair of chopsticks Minjun's gnawed into a horrible mess, and stuffs it in Minjun's mouth. "You were 70% off."

 

"YAH," appaone starts sternly, then hides a smile behind his hand, eyes crinkling at the corners.

 

Minjun chews his chicken, contemplating.

 

*

 

"If I was 70% off," Minjun asks one night, as appaone is tucking him into bed, "how much was appatwo."

 

Appaone freezes.

 

"Because," Minjun explains with the kind of yawn that makes his jaw hurt, "if you got _me_ at Lotte, then—"

 

"Appa's not very good at math," appaone laughs, brushing Minjun's bangs off his forehead with a large, warm hand. "But no one's more priceless than Minjunnie."

 

Sure, appaone says that but he doesn't sleep in _Minjun's_ bed every night.

 

*

 

"Can appaone sleep with me today."

 

Appatwo looks up from the vacuum, eyes narrowed. "Come here."

 

Minjun hops over the cord and shuffles closer.

 

Appatwo vacuums lint off Minjun's shirt. "...which teddy bear did you want yesterday and I didn't buy it for you?"

 

Minjun pauses.

 

Oh.

 

*

 

"Appatwo got me _four_ teddy bears..." Minjun reasons with a sniffle, ice cream cone sticky in his hands.

 

Defeated, appaone gently musses Minjun's hair and takes out a shiny gold card, muttering under his breath.

 

*

 

"Are you _bribing_ him?"

 

Minjun ducks behind a wall, chocolate smeared around his mouth.

 

Appaone's voice carries down the hallway. "He's _four_ , why are you trying to bribe—"

 

"I'm not bribing him—"

 

Minjun shrinks into the wall, worried.

 

He wanted all of the teddy bears yesterday, but.

 

"...are you worried he likes me more?" appaone asks cautiously.

 

Appatwo snorts, hidden by the kitchen cabinets. " _Everyone_ likes you more."

 

There's no sound for a while and Minjun clenches his little fists and prepares to apologize because yeah, he likes teddy bears, but he likes his appas so much more and if they're fighting—

 

"He asked me to give you to him," appatwo says quietly.

 

Minjun peers around the corner, stretching his neck and leaving chocolate fingerprints on the wall.

 

For a long moment, appaone stares at appatwo.

 

And then he's crossing the room and Minjun shuts his eyes tight because in anime, someone always gets hit at this speed and...

 

Unsettled, Minjun tentatively opens his eyes.

 

His appas are grinning at each other, appaone's hands tangled in appatwo's hair.

 

It's kinda gross.

 

*

 

"Hold still."

 

Minjun squirms as appatwo runs a pencil above his head, marking off his height.

 

"I'm gonna be taller than you," he warns appatwo haughtily.

 

Appatwo fixes his eyes on Minjun's for a moment, then bites back a smile.

 

"You can try."

 

*

 

"Yah, he was supposed to be in bed an hour ago."

 

Appatwo tilts his controller, teeth gritted, attention on the screen. "No, just—one more round—"

 

In appatwo's lap, Minjun clenches his jaw, shaking his own controller as his cart almost careens off the road. "One more round."

 

Appaone chucks a pillow at their heads.

 

Distracted, Minjun lets his cart speed across an obstacle and plummet off the track.

 

Appaone makes a small apologetic noise and stalks over to crouch next to him.

 

"Oh. I'm sorry, Minjun-ah," he murmurs, ruffling his hair, "appa is sorry."

 

Still.

 

Minjun feels his bottom lip tremble.

 

His eyes fill with stupid tears.

 

With a heavy sigh, appatwo leans his chin atop Minjun's head and exchanges his controller with Minjun's.

 

"You win this round."

 

*

 

Minjun's not really keen on concerts.

 

They're loud and neither appa really pays attention to him and there are so many people totally ignoring him, but there's just something about watching that small corner of the stage where two water bottles are resting next to each other, straws sticking out, name tags taped to their edges.

 

During the next concert, Minjun sneaks in his old sippy cup and sticks it between the two water bottles.

 

No one removes it.

 

*

 

"Yeah. No. He's not wearing that."

 

Minjun inspects himself in appaone's mirror.

 

"But it's cute~" appaone says cheerfully, spreading both arms toward Minjun as though showing him off.

 

"It's going to summon the fashion police."

 

Unperturbed, Minjun spins around, satisfied with his choices. He stole appaone's sunglasses and appatwo's scarf and no one looks better than his appas so obviously, no one looks better than Minjun.

 

"He can't go out with us like that," appatwo argues, pulling Minjun back by the collar.

 

Appaone grows quiet. "He can't go out with us in general."

 

Appatwo closes his mouth.

 

His fingers dig into Minjun's shoulder, pulling him closer.

 

With a frown, Minjun leans into appatwo's knees.

 

*

 

"Am I a secret."

 

Appaone drops a dish into the bubbling sink. "Eh?"

 

Awkwardly, Minjun shifts his weight to one knee, fidgeting with his sleeves. "I heard your friend—"

 

"Manager-hyung," appaone corrects.

 

"Manager-ahjussi," Minjun nods. "I heard him say it."

 

Gingerly, appaone wipes his hands on his pajama pants. "Appa has two kinds of secrets."

 

Heart fluttering, Minjun nods, eyes burning.

 

Appaone bends down to press a soft kiss to Minjun's forehead.

 

"The first kind," he says tenderly, "is a secret you're afraid to let out."

 

Minjun nods again.

 

"The second kind," appaone continues, holding his gaze, "is a secret you want to keep," he presses a warm palm to Minjun's heart, "only here."

 

Minjun's heart skips a beat.

 

Appaone straightens to his full height.

 

It feels unreachable.

 

"Do you know what kind of secret you are?"

 

Minjun doesn't really know but he nods anyway.

 

*

 

" _He_ pushed _me_ first," a boy whines at appatwo, pointing an angry finger at Minjun.

 

Minjun's sprawled on the park's mulch, knees scraped, socks dirty.

 

The boy's so much taller than him and so much older and Minjun didn't push him at all, he just wanted to go down the slide once and—

 

" _You don't touch my kid_ ," appatwo says coldly, shoulders squared and face blank.

 

Minjun's heart thumps loudly.

 

*

 

"Let me put the bumpers up."

 

"No," Minjun growls, stumbling under the weight of appatwo's bowling ball.

 

He's got this.

 

He doesn't need bumpers.

 

He's a big boy.

 

"Hwaiting, Minjunnie!" appaone shouts and Minjun loses his footing and drops the ball.

 

It rolls slowly into someone else's lane, knocking to a stop by a woman's ankle.

 

"Sorry," appaone cries out hastily, jumping to apologize to her.

 

Appatwo just dies laughing, face red, lips stretched, eyes hilariously mismatched.

 

*

 

Minjun likes to sing in the bath.

 

He likes it even more when appaone pokes his head in to toss him a floaty toy then happily joins in, matching his pitch to Minjun's.

 

But Minjun loves it best when appatwo pads in with warm towels, grumbling and complaining about the noise, but grudgingly slips into a shaky three-part harmony anyway.

 

*

 

"You should ask for a sister," Jimin says.

 

They're sharing a lunch at their preschool table and her lunch is a nice, pretty Hello Kitty-shaped sandwich.

 

Minjun's lunch is a little burnt and there's a chunk missing and Minjun's pretty sure that's appatwo's teethmarks but he nibbles on a misshapen rice bear and says, "I don't want a sister."

 

"Why not."

 

Because.

 

His appas belong to just him.

 

*

 

Minjun wakes up smushed between appaone and appatwo.

 

His foot is indented in appatwo's stomach and he's kind of head-butting appaone but he feels so safe and so warm and so happy that he doesn't move for two whole hours.

 

*

 

"Who do you love more," his grandmother asks with a laugh, shoving a full plate of cookies in front of him.

 

Minjun thinks.

 

He loves both more than anything.

 

His grandmother sits opposite him, hands splayed under her chin, eyes twinkling. "Good answer." She smiles and nods, features twisting pleasantly, "And do you know who Changmin-appa and Yunho-appa love more than aaaanyone in the world?"

 

Minjun smiles.

 

"Each other."

 

*

 

"I heard on the TV there's a 90% off sale at Lotte."

 

Appaone and appatwo look up in unison.

 

"...god, are we still doing teddy bears..." appatwo asks, making a face.

 

Appaone kicks his shin under the table. "Minjunnie... we don't have room for more teddy bears..." He pauses for a moment, pondering. "Unless we get rid of some of appa's legos..."

 

Appatwo snaps his head around to glare.

 

Appaone smiles so brightly even Minjun has to squint.

 

"I want a sister," he says confidently.

 

*

 

It takes Minjun _forever_ to figure out which kind of secret he is.

 

He realizes when he wakes up by his sister's crib, her chubby little fingers tugging on his wrist.

 

Quietly, he tucks her back in with his favorite teddy bear and sits by her feet, guard-duty enabled.

 

She doesn't have a name yet.

 

Minjun's going to call her _you._


	11. mixed

Three-sentence prompt fills to serve as an interlude of sorts (...pretend they're all exactly three sentences long):

* * *

 

  * jaechun



 

For Jaejoong’s birthday, Yoochun buys him a fancy sweater one size too large; stuffs his ssambaps with extra rice; dilutes his soju with water, does all this with worried scowls and white knuckles and low angry growls, eyes dark and quiet and _can you stop_.

 

Casually, Jaejoong pretends he doesn’t get it—skips meals, stays up or out or in or down, drinks and smokes and wilts away.

 

Because more than all those other things, beneath vice and waste and ruin, the _only_ sin Jaejoong’s endlessly addicted to is Yoochun’s undivided attention.

 

* * *

 

  * hosu



 

Junsu meant to get a new bed—a bigger bed; a wider, softer, nicer bed—before Yunho moved in, but his parents bought kitchen cabinets instead.

 

So when Yunho drops his tattered backpack on the threshold of Junsu’s bedroom, one scrawny hand scratching awkwardly behind his neck, and asks, in a gratefully hesitant way, “Uh, where will _I_ sleep?” Junsu laughs and says, _hyung_

 

"With me."

 

* * *

 

  * yoomin



 

"You stole it," Changmin rages, violently kicking the couch over, cushions toppling onto the cracked coffee table, "you fucking stole my first kiss, you _fucker_ —”

 

"Wait, no, you said you were asleep," Jaejoong reasons, palms upturned amicably, "so what makes you think it was _me_ —”

 

Safely tucked away in the kitchenette, Yoochun licks his lips.

 

* * *

 

  * yoosu



 

The first toy Junsu remembers loving, the first memory that burns itself deep into his soul, is a toy train—sleek, shiny, perfect in the palm of his hand—and how he thought, assumed, _knew_ it was his.

 

Until his parents told him to share it with his hyung.

 

He doesn’t understand why the stupid toy train flashes before his eyes as he bows at the audience with a surge of emotion, sweat dripping to the unswept stage, but out of habit, he reaches for Yoochun’s hand and finds it already clasped in Jaejoong’s because they’re three now, not five, not in formation, not next to each other—

 

Oh.

 

It’s not all that different.

 

* * *

 

  * 2u



  
Seven years down the line, Yoochun shouldn’t still distrust people, one water bottle at a time.

 

Four years down the line, he shouldn’t still have Yunho’s old disconnected number ported to each new phone, shouldn’t still want to taste-test Yunho’s hypothetical americanos, shouldn’t still ghost-dial Yunho every time he buys a pack of cigarettes, shouldn’t still want to ink Yunho’s name into his skin.

 

Ten years down the line, Yoochun shouldn’t still want to earnestly ask _hyung how is it hyung how did I do hyung how did you like it_ , but Yoochun still does.

 

* * *

 

  * yoosu



 

In the multitude of expanding, never-ending universes, there’s only _one_ in which Yoochun wakes up on a late August morning and drags his tired feet across the stuffy apartment, past Yunho, past Changmin, past Jaejoong, and runs a shaky hand through Junsu’s hair, murmuring,

 

"Hyung and me are gonna leave. You’re coming with us, right."

 

It’s only in this one tiny strange improbable universe that Junsu looks up at Yoochun and, with a soft sigh, says, “I want to stay.”

 

* * *

 

  * gtop



 

Seunghyun doesn’t leave his man-cave for a week.

 

Dude, whatever, Jiyong’s used to this. It’s no skin off his back—shit, it’s not like he’s got a shitload of free time anyway.

 

Like, he’s a popular dude. He’s connected like a motherfuck. He’s a babe magnet. He’s swag personified.

 

_yo, wanna hit up ellui together_

 

He sends the text at 16:39.

 

Seunghyun doesn’t respond until 22:01.

 

_not today_

 

Jiyong doesn’t realize until 23:59 that Seunghyun means _not ever._

* * *

  * Junsu/boonies (...we don't talk about this anon)



 

"—so I thought, instead of you joining the cast of _December_ , you could maybe come look at some kittens with me.”

 

Junsu considers for a moment, then purses his lips.

 

"…but how did you get into my house."

 

* * *

 

 

Added May 2014

 

  * jaechun pianist au



 

 

Yoochun first sees it when he's ten years old—wide, sleek, unforgettable, seemingly fragile in the dark of the concert hall—and knows with complete proprietary certainty this thing was made for him, carved for his eyes only, meant to be touched by his fingers alone.

 

When he's twenty-five, lost in and conquered by a sonata, playing to an audience of a thousand plus on the very thing that was made for him, he misses a note, uncharacteristically, inexplicably, just fumbles over the keys and feels his eyes and fingers disobey, finds himself searching the pit only to find the note hiding in a pair of hooded attentive eyes.

 

"What'd you lose, Yoochun-ssi," the man grins after the venue empties and Yoochun knows, with complete troubled certainty whom _he_ was made for, "and can I help you find it."

 

* * *

 

  * hosu



 

Yunho's not a competitive guy.

 

...alright, he's competitive when it comes to dancing and singing and teamwork, but he's a pushover when it comes to family because family comes first, always, and so when he moves in with Junsu, just shy of his fifteenth birthday, and Junsu tells him all about his hyung, how his hyung is big and tall and great at everything, how there's nothing hyung can't do, how Yunho's just gonna love him, too, Yunho decides... no.

 

If he spends four months growing bigger and taller and better at everything, it totally has nothing to do with displacing Junsu's endless admiration.

 

* * *

 

 

  * hosu + hoya



 

"Hyung," Junsu says around a mouthful of snacks, feet folded in Yunho's lap, inkigayo loud and bright and distracting before them, "he looks like you."

 

"Nah," Yunho laughs, amused, and pats Junsu's knee, lingers above it with a sudden thoughtful frown, "...he looks like you."

 

Junsu makes sure not to say anything dumb, nothing ridiculous like _if we had a baby..._ , doesn't accidentally start thinking about the logistics of it, certainly doesn't shift his thighs or squirm away, just keeps his mouth closed and proper and then Yunho fixes his eyes on Junsu's lips, with something weird and intrigued and wary, and says, "Well, if we had a kid—"

 

* * *

 

 

  * homin



 

Yunho tries to buy them online, because he's an idol and idols are pure and virginal and condoms are not, so he honestly does try, just loads a search engine and hesitates, rethinks things and misspells terms, gets nowhere fast.

 

"Are you buying condoms," Changmin asks, slouching onto the couch next to him, wet, sweaty, chugging deeply from a crinkled water bottle, adds—too casually— "you don't need condoms," and Yunho wants to say yeah, no one needs them, it's just a precautionary measure, just a foresight, nothing serious, he's not buying them because he's been thinking about things, about maybe ruining everything, he's not buying them because he wants to fuck the destructive withholding things out of Changmin, he's not buying them for that.

 

"You don't need them, hyung," Changmin repeats calmly, bringing the water bottle back to his lips, "because when I fuck you, I'm going to fuck you raw."

 

* * *

 

  * 2u drunken nights



 

The thing about Yunho is that he's a keeper—he keeps peace and faith and secrets.

 

So when Yoochun drinks himself stupid, accidentally on purpose, between the early morning hours of _what am I doing_ and _I can do anything_ , when he realizes, yeah, he doesn't have to fit into a box until he's dead, Yunho's bed looks inviting.

 

If only so Yoochun can feel kept, too.

 

* * *

 

 

  * 2u drunken knights



 

Yunho starts guard duty as Yoochun is getting off, sleepy and careless and yawning into the night, robes disheveled, hair too long and inappropriately messy, so Yunho quietly passes him a jug when their shoulders brush and says, "Village chief gave it to me."

 

Yoochun pauses, hand on the hilt of his unsharpened sword, draws closer with practiced apprehension, and asks, "Can we share."

 

It tastes best from Yoochun's mouth anyway.

 

* * *

 

 

  * jaechun dropouts



 

He adds an extra scoop to the girl's order and grins, maybe winks a little, ignores the TV perched in one corner, above the menu and the table no one ever sits at.

 

The video plays four times during his shift, day after day, for weeks, in a language quickly fading from his tongue, in colors bright and blinding and drenched in long-forgotten useless wants.

 

He only ever looks up when he hears one voice, soft and somehow familiar, and then he wants—desperately, painfully—again.

 

* * *

 

  * yoosu bodyguards



 

"No," Junsu whines, knuckles white around the steering wheel, "you'll get me killed, let _go_."

 

"No," Yoochun argues stubbornly, trying to wrap his fingers around the stick shift, "I have experience now, just let me do this."

 

They get pulled over and ticketed forty-seven seconds later.


	12. homin

  * Yunho's girlfriends [homin]



* * *

 

*

 

"Make sure you don't forget anything—"

 

Yunho pats himself down as people push by his seat, trudging toward the stage exit.

 

The announcer's voice drowns out their manager's, so Yunho taps his back pocket—phone—checks his jacket—wallet—

 

"Hyung."

 

Debuts are important.

 

They're the first step and if he misses his footing, overshoots his landing, fucks it up, they'll _all_ fall with him—

 

"Hyung."

 

Fear settles into Yunho's bones.

 

"Hyung," Changmin says, voice trembling, face pale, "we got this."

 

Restless, unthinking, Yunho pulls him into an embrace.

 

Kisses his temple.

 

*

 

Yunho's first girlfriend says, "...I just... I guess I thought you'd be different."

 

*

 

From this high up, Japan looks like home.

 

"Still hurts?"

 

Yunho rubs the pad of his thumb into a bruised thigh, rough and careless over a spreading ache. "It's fine, Changminnie."

 

"I think he's asking if he should massage it for you~" Yoochun hollers across the aisle, lips curled evilly.

 

"Massage it for him, Changminnie~" Jaejoong joins in, voice raspy, eyes bright.

 

Unamused, Junsu pops his head up, one seat ahead, and tosses a thing of ointment at Changmin's lap. "Muscle injuries are a serious matter, you shouldn't take them so lightly, okay."

 

Red-faced, Changmin uncaps the tube. Doesn't look at Yunho.

 

The plane tilts.

 

Quietly, Yunho slides the blanket down, hikes up his soccer shorts, and proffers his palm at Changmin with a tense awkward smile. "I can do it myself."

 

Changmin shrugs.

 

"You don't have to."

 

*

  
Yunho's second girlfriend says, "You never have time for me."

 

*

 

"Go to bed," Changmin grits out, mashing the arrow keys.

 

"Hyung," Yunho corrects, so sleep-deprived he can't tell if the room is dark or if he's passing out.

 

"Go to bed, _hyung_ ," Changmin nods frantically, eyes glued to the computer monitor. "We have a show tomo—FUCK."

 

Shaking, he slams back in his chair as zombified dobermans snap at the blood-splattered screen. The creepy piano melody evens out, dropping to a softer, melancholy trickle and the flashing GAME OVER fades to pitch black.

 

Panting, Changmin steels himself and hits the spacebar.

 

"You're gonna play again?" Yunho wonders, only half-surprised.

 

Changmin runs trembling fingers over the keyboard. "Please go to bed, hyung."

 

Yunho scoots his chair closer.

 

"Isn't it scary to play alone."

 

*

 

Yunho's third girlfriend says, "You never relax around me."

 

*

 

"—so, after SBS," Yunho sighs into the couch cushion, "we have the live countdown and then Normal FM with Shindong and then dance rehearsal and then Yoochunnie and me have to drop by Cheongdam—"

 

"Is this before or after we steal a time-turner," Yoochun yawns, jaw almost dislodging with the force of it.

 

Exhausted, Yunho rubs his face into the rough surface of the couch, forgetting how to word.

 

"It's a Harry Potter thing," Changmin tells him helpfully, sprawling behind Yunho's back. He curls around Yunho like a koala, spiky bangs tickling Yunho's nape, and swings one leg across Yunho's hip, slips a warm hand around Yunho's waist and Yunho's just _gone_ , asleep in an instant, tucked safely into unconsciousness and into Changmin.

 

*

 

Yunho's fourth girlfriend says, "You never tell me anything."

 

*

 

"—and one time, I flew off my sled and straight under my teacher's skirt so she failed me in math for a whole year—"

 

Changmin snorts, eyes mismatched, gaze skimming over Yunho's scar tissue.

 

"Hyung," he complains halfheartedly, bundling Yunho up, "you told me that story, like, two years ago."

 

A snowball splatters into the window.

 

"Ah, has it already been that long," Yunho asks brightly, pulling a soft fluffy hat over Changmin's eyes.

 

Changmin pauses, squirms under his four sweaters, then unwraps a thick scarf off the coat rack and ties it around Yunho's neck. "Yeah."

 

Three more snowballs smack into the door in rapid succession.

 

"You ready to kick their butts, Changminnie," Yunho asks and doesn't know why he suddenly thinks Changmin's name feels like a palindrome, reading the same front and back, sounding suspiciously like _mine_.

 

"Yeah," Changmin grins, shy, and ties the scarf tighter around Yunho's neck.

 

He binds it too tight.

 

Yunho lets him.

 

 

*

 

Yunho's fifth girlfriend says, "I'm not on your speed-dial."

 

*

 

Yunho wakes up in the hospital.

 

"He really should press charges," Junsu says, pacing by the window.

 

"He's not gonna press charges," Jaejoong sighs, resigned.

 

"Can _we_ press charges," Yoochun demands angrily, knocking the back of his head against a white wall, knees drawn to his chest.

 

Tired, Yunho sweeps his gaze to the side.

 

Changmin's sitting by the bed, nose pressed to the inside of Yunho's wrist.

 

His eyes are open.

 

He doesn't say anything.

 

Just stares at Yunho, quiet, intense, menacing.

 

Mouth dry, Yunho darts his tongue out, drags it slowly across his chapped lips.

 

They don't taste like poison.

 

They taste like Changmin's favorite gum.

 

Yunho's not sure there's a difference.

 

*

 

Yunho's sixth girlfriend says, "You're never affectionate in public."

 

 

*

 

They win the award and Changmin cries and Yunho doesn't know what to do.

 

Except pull him close, swallow him up, bow and bend and bandage his body around Changmin's, mindlessly kiss into his neck, murmur happy things, soft things, keep his lips pressed to the sharp bony part of Changmin's shoulder as though he means to grind him into a fine powder with nothing but his mouth.

 

Later, when they're being pushed around by the crowd, amidst the confusion and the celebration, Jaejoong pulls him aside and says, "You can't do that to the kid."

 

Everything fades to a dull throb, painting the inside of Yunho's head with searing white noise.

 

The ground beneath his feet lurches.

 

"Yah, hyung," Yoochun whines, bouncing between sweaty crowd surfers, impatient and disheveled in the distance, "we gotta goooo."

 

Hastily, Jaejoong clears his throat, shouts a hoarse, "Coming," then tugs his furry vest aside to expose one shoulder and a slick collarbone.

 

Yunho gives him an unamused look.

 

Jaejoong averts his eyes, but his tone is unapologetic. "I said _you_ can't."

 

Yunho opens his mouth to argue.

 

"No," Jaejoong sighs, " _literally_. You won't let yourself fall, so don't _make_ _him_."

 

 

*

 

Yunho's seventh girlfriend says, "Maybe you just need some... time to figure out who you are and where you want to go from here."

 

*

 

Yunho's never seen Changmin this drunk.

 

He's barely upright, backing Yunho into an unlit corner, pupils blown, lips cracked, cheeks flushed.

 

"If you ever throw me away like they threw _us_ away—" he starts darkly, dangerously, then seems to forget. "Yunho."

 

"Yeah," Yunho agrees, pulls him closer, locks him in, holds him in all the ways he shouldn't.

 

" _Yunho_."

 

Yunho buries his fingers in Changmin's tangled hair. "I'm here."

 

Changmin slumps against him, cheek smushed over Yunho's heart.

 

"Me, too, Yunho," he drawls with effort. "I'm here, too."

 

"Yeah."

 

"What did I do," Changmin asks, curling his fingers into Yunho's shirt. "Hyung."

 

The shirt's wet below Yunho's collarbone, cooling against his skin.

 

"You stayed," he tells Changmin's damp hair.

 

"Yeah," Changmin nods, straightening. He sways in Yunho's arms. "Yeah. I stayed." He closes his eyes and sighs, "Reward me."

 

"Yeah," Yunho says and kisses him.

 

Because Changmin will forget this by morning.

 

If not—

 

—he'll forgive.

 

*

 

Yunho's eighth girlfriend says, "You never talk about me."

 

*

 

Changmin's face looks like it's been engulfed by fire but set in ice. He's flushed and offended and obviously angry, so Yunho shifts restlessly and almost tells the interviewer that if he's like a dry dying desert, Changmin is like an endless drop of water, creating an ocean, a storm, a _tsunami_ inside Yunho—

 

"If I'm like fire," Yunho says cheerfully, fixing his eyes on the interviewer, "then Changminnie is like water—"

 

*

 

Yunho's ninth girlfriend says, "You're too nice."

 

*

 

"This is fucking _bullshit_ ," Changmin rages, flinging papers across the desk, mouth turned down.

 

Yunho doesn't even remember what they're arguing about, but his ribcage feels full of wild rough angry things and one by one, they bleed out through his mouth and then he's saying unreasonable fucked up shit like, "Then why the FUCK did you even stay, just fucking go, I don't fucking NEED—"

 

And Changmin is screaming, "You DO fucking need me, what the fuck would you even BE without me—"

 

And Yunho cuts him down with, "Happy."

 

And Changmin ends it with, "Like you'd ever be happy without me."

 

 

*

 

Yunho's tenth girlfriend says, "You're too passive."

 

*

 

In the brief silence before their comeback concert, in the unsettling pause between _who we are_ and _who we try to be_ ,

 

Yunho

 

kisses

 

Changmin.

 

He kisses him the way a noose sinks into skin.

 

Sharp, piercing, relentless, and Changmin struggles for air, offers Yunho tiny shallow surprised gasps as though he never once thought this line was crossable, as though it was insurmountable and absurd and hopeless, but he clutches at Yunho's vest so desperately like this is it, like tomorrow's not coming, like he's saying _fine, hyung, let's share this last breath, too, and die_.

 

The beat starts, heavy and loud, the bass shakes the stage below their feet, and behind the curtain, Changmin stumbles under Yunho's weight, shifts beneath his body, falls in every way Yunho's already fallen.

 

 

*

 

The flight attendant clicks the PA system on.

 

"Before disembarking," she drones unenthusiastically, "please make sure you've collected all of your valuable belongings."

 

Yunho only looks at Changmin.

 

*

 

There is no girlfriend number eleven.


	13. jaechun

  * bodyswap [jaechun]



 

* * *

 

Yoochun doesn't really notice anything unusual for, like, the first two hours.

 

He wakes up with his face smushed against a studio soundboard, which is fine, even though he doesn't totally remember coming here last night.

 

He's actually kinda vaguely cognizant of hitting the gym after a preliminary table-read and conking out in his own bed but whatever.

 

Half-asleep, he scrolls through some recently-saved digital data, yawning every two seconds and wishing Junsu would magically sense his distress and apparate with a wheelbarrow of coffee because _Jaejoong_ 's probably not gonna rise from his coffin until sunset—

 

"...oh, you're here early," one of the assistants huffs in passing, eyes wide.

 

Yoochun inspects her for coffee and finds none, so he gives her a sleepy little wave and goes back to editing a music sheet.

 

He doesn't remember composing this particular song, but it sounds oddly familiar and nostalgically pleasant, so he dicks around on the computer for an hour, obsessively rubbing at his chin.

 

The skin feels weirdly smooth.

 

"...oh no, are we getting shut down?" another assistant gasps, backtracking into the room.

 

Yoochun swivels around in his chair. "Why would we be getting shut down?"

 

The assistant fidgets. "Ah, no, just... you're not usually up this early... I'm gonna go, hwaiting, hyung~"

 

Frowning, Yoochun pivots back.

 

Okay, yeah, he's been out of the studio for a while and maybe he overdid the golf thing, but come on, what the hell.

 

He darts a quick glance to the computer clock, then sighs.

 

Tired, he saves everything, then powers off the monitor.

 

The screen turns dark.

 

And reflective.

 

Yoochun's jaw clenches.

 

Well, fuck.

 

*

 

"Wake up."

 

"No."

 

Yoochun wraps angry hands around Jaejoong's— _his_ _own_ —shoulders, straddling the bastard. Straddling _himself_. Fuck. Shit.

 

Jaejoong cracks one eye open and it's so fucking messed up to watch him not look like Jaejoong, fuck.

 

"What are you doing in my..." Jaejoong starts, using Yoochun's sleep-rough voice, "... body?" He sits up violently, bucking Yoochun off. "What the fuck."

 

From the floor, Yoochun kicks the bedpost. "What the fuck did you _do_."

 

*

 

"—I watched Secret Garden—" Jaejoong rants neurotically, pacing around Yoochun's coffee table.

 

Yoochun's eyes absorb his every move, taking in his own collarbones and back and...

 

...yeah, perhaps that tattoo was a poor decision...

 

"—and I pissed off Junsu's coordi when I stole some nail polish," Jaejoong rages, voice hitching. He sucks in his thumb—Yoochun's thumb—and nibbles on it with a distracted pout and fuck this.

 

Flustered, Yoochun jumps to his feet and growls, "Stop."

 

Jaejoong meets his eyes.

 

Yoochun places an oddly warm hand on Jaejoong's oddly cold shoulder. "Let's just focus on undoing this."

 

Jaejoong nods, brows knitting.

 

"Don't give me wrinkles," Yoochun warns, trying to smooth his own forehead out, "my movie—"

 

Jaejoong gives an impatient huff.

 

*

 

Yoochun looks up from his laptop, forty-nine tabs open for research.

 

"I couldn't cry during rehearsals," Jaejoong announces from the door, violently tossing Yoochun's car keys to the table, "so they sent me home."

 

Yoochun headdesks.

 

*

 

"Are there ghosts in your new apartment."

 

Yoochun squints at his phone, half-asleep. "What."

 

Something clatters in the background. "No, Yoochunnie, come over before they get me."

 

Yoochun hangs up.

 

*

 

Yoochun turns the phone camera at the sink.

 

"That one?"

 

"No," Jaejoong says, sounding static-y and distant as the signal bounces off marble, "before you use _that_ , you have to use the toner by the—"

 

Yoochun's other hand hovers over a clear blue jar.

 

"No, that's soap," Jaejoong groans over the phone, agitated.

 

With a rattled frown, Yoochun accidentally knocks over a whole thing of cosmetics. Four bottles topple into the trash can.

 

One plonks into the toilet, splashing the phone.

 

There's a long silence and then,

 

"Fuck, we gotta move in together."

 

*

 

Yoochun's face feels like he just grated it over a cheese shredder made of mint and cinnamon.

 

"What happened to _I never use ~anything on my face_ ," he whines, casting an accusatory glance at Jaejoong, some kind of scented water dripping past his eyelashes and blinding him, probably permanently.

 

Jaejoong's face falls. "Age."

 

Retinas burning, Yoochun rolls his eyes and pats himself dry with a soft fluffy towel. "Okay, now that we've made sure I won't fuck up your perfect skin, can we maybe make sure you don't fuck up my—"

 

"—movie," Jaejoong snaps, "yeah, yeah, I know."

 

"Run the lines by me again," Yoochun commands, slipping into a threadbare t-shirt. He catches the reflection in the mirror. He sees himself and he sees Jaejoong but it's still all reversed and fucked up and terrifying. "Take it from page seven."

 

Jaejoong hesitates.

 

"No, I should... teach you some other stuff first."

 

Yoochun makes a face.

 

His skin already feels pulverized and he doesn't feel like inhaling chemicals this late at night, so, "We don't need to bleach your hair, hyung, it's lovely the way it—"

 

"Not that."

 

Yoochun relaxes.

 

" _That_ ," Jaejoong says and points at the towel slung low on Yoochun's hips.

 

"What," Yoochun laughs, troll mode activated, "you gonna show me how to play with your junk or—"

 

"Yes," Jaejoong nods calmly. "There's a specific thing you have to do or it won't—"

 

Yoochun freezes.

 

"...do you want me to tell you," Jaejoong asks softly, "or show you."

 

Something sudden and suffocating pumps through Yoochun's borrowed heart. "...this is so messed up."

 

Jaejoong averts his eyes.

 

"I know," he murmurs and even though it's not his voice, it's his exact intonation of, " _Yoochunnie_ , what if we—"

 

"Don't say it."

 

"—what if we have to stay like this for a while—"

 

Yoochun stomps out of the bathroom.

 

*

 

He wakes up around 3:00 AM.

 

He throws the blanket off, wide-eyed, and stalks into the living room.

 

From experience, he knows this time of night is when Jaejoong's generally at his best, fully-awake and crazy productive, but it's still a little strange to find him slumped over a coffee table, staring at Yoochun's script.

 

Yoochun slows his steps, wrecked by a rush of affection.

 

With a determined scowl, he shakes it off and pads over, shoulders tense, and demands, "Does that mean you used _my_ body."

 

Startled, Jaejoong looks up. "...that's not the issue right now."

 

Darkness descends upon Yoochun.

 

"You did," he groans and collapses by the other end of the coffee table. "Hyung. No."

 

"Just... a couple of times," Jaejoong reasons. "I was curious."

 

Yoochun snaps his head up, mortified. "ABOUT."

 

Too casually, Jaejoong waves him off, hiding behind the script and making a sort of strangled flustered noise, "Your refractory period..."

 

Yoochun blanches, stumbling to his feet and contemplating the window.

 

"Uh, congratulations?" Jaejoong smiles guiltily, "I mean. That's why I had time for... a couple more rounds—"

 

"WHAT THE HELL HAVE YOU BEEN DOING TO ME."

 

"...I didn't film any of it..."

 

"THAT DOESN'T—THAT'S NOT WHAT I WAS—"

  
Flushed and burning up, Yoochun stalks out of the room, throwing over his shoulder, "LEARN MY LINES AND GO SLEEP."

 

"...okay," Jaejoong replies easily, laughter seeping into his voice, "but my body won't be able to sleep if you don't j—"

 

"GO DIE."

 

*

 

Yoochun doesn't sleep.

 

*

 

"Yo, Jae, wanna hang tonight," some dude asks, sidling up to Yoochun with a smarmy grin.

 

Yoochun vaguely recognizes him as _that one guy Jaejoong hangs out with and probably shouldn't_ , so he pastes a polite smile and excuses himself with, "Sorry, man, I've got stuff."

 

Which is true.

 

He has stuff.

 

He has...

 

...to finish Jaejoong's album.

 

Because Jaejoong's busy trying not to get Yoochun removed from his movie.

 

Fuck.

 

"Eh," that one guy says, rubbing his hand up Yoochun's arm, "I was kinda hoping you'd go." He shrugs one shoulder, looking shady as fuck. "I'm a little short on cash this week, so..."

 

Yoochun narrows his eyes.

 

*

 

"Get back on set," Yoochun grumbles, knee-deep in gibberish.

 

When the hell did composing become this fucking hard.

 

"Done for the day," Jaejoong greets and drops into the cat-scratched chair next to Yoochun. Happily, he dumps an entire plastic bag of snacks to the soundboard and peels open a packet of saewookkang, drenching the room in a gross shrimpy scent.

 

Yoochun's kind of hungry.

 

Kind of hungry in the way Junsu's kind of obsessed with soccer.

 

But Yoochun stepped on the scale this morning and if Jaejoong finds out he's added two whole kilograms to his body in the five days they've been switched, he's going to disband JYJ and burn down all of Eastern Asia—

 

"Your lunch looks nice," Jaejoong says with interest.

 

Yoochun glances over at a store-bought bento some assistant warily brought him an hour ago.

 

He's been trying very hard not to inhale it.

 

"It's _my_ lunch..." he tells Jaejoong suspiciously.

 

Jaejoong grins and sneaks his fingers over the plastic top, peels it off, and stuffs a riceball into his mouth.

 

"...are you trying to get me fat," Yoochun sighs, guilt dissipating, hunger growing.

 

"Well," Jaejoong says around the food, rice flying everywhere, "I can eat whatever I want now and not have to worry—"

 

"WORRY ABOUT ME."

 

Angry, Yoochun snatches the half-empty bag of saewookkang from Jaejoong's lap and pushes the window open and spills the pieces at random birds perched on the ledge.

 

They swarm instantly, chirping in gratitude and bathing in an unexpected snack shower. One even seems to bow to him.

 

With a grumpy mumble, Yoochun shuts the window and wipes the crumbs on Jaejoong's hair.

 

His own hair.

 

Fuck.

 

For his part, Jaejoong just happily unwraps a chocopie out of nowhere, tapping one foot to a silent, peppy beat, eyes warm and cheeks glowing.

 

Yoochun swivels away from him.

 

*

 

Yoochun's so hungry he could eat his own cooking.

 

But.

 

"Oppaaaa," some girl he's never seen whines, draping herself over him and backing him into a wall, "let's go for drinksssss."

 

Gingerly, Yoochun pries her fingers away. He's been successfully fending off all kinds of people intent on apparently riding Jaejoong into a coma, but he's hungry and sleepy and stressed out, so why not just—

 

"Oppaaaaa," the girl moans at him, pawing at his chest, "if you say no again, maybe I'll tell everyone you're gaaaaay~"

 

Instant animosity washes over Yoochun.

 

*

 

Rain's pouring down like something's gone apocalyptically wrong by the time Yoochun drags himself home.

 

Well.

 

 _Jaejoong_ 's home.

 

Surly, Yoochun toes off his wet shoes and sheds his shirt and shakes water out of his hair.

 

But then he tucks the strands behind his ears, tenderly, because Jaejoong's hair is longer and coarser and he looks best when—

 

Yoochun stops.

 

He glances at a huge creepy portrait of some pasty mickey mouse kid and stares at his distorted reflection and sees nothing but Jaejoong.

 

Without notice or warning, his mood flips.

 

He feels extra crabby and disillusioned and just overwhelmed with a general sense of disgust because people can be shit.

 

Which isn't brand new information but he just didn't think they could be _this_ shit.

 

"Hyung," he calls out even though the apartment's dark.

 

Sulky, he drops to the couch and throws his arm over his face.

 

His skin smells like Jaejoong's cologne and it's not really his skin nor his body nor his anything and for a moment, in the dark, Yoochun panics, truly loses his bearings, freaks out he'll trigger an asthma attack.

 

Not that this body is asthmatic.

 

He forces himself to breathe in, anyway, to breathe out, deeply, evenly; reminds himself that Jaejoong's probably worse off, stuck in a body brimming with limitations, burdened with physical disadvantages, especially considering how fucking beautiful the real Jaejoong is—

 

"YOOCHUN-AH."

 

Yoochun sits up, lightning-fast.

 

Jaejoong charges into the living room, drenched.

 

His hair is a mess and he's shaking and—consumed with worry, Yoochun barely registers he's in the wrong body and springs up.

 

"I don't want to break you," Jaejoong says, voice hitched, breathing choppy, "I don't know how to use an inhaler—Yoochun-ah—"

 

Automatically, Yoochun closes the distance and wraps his arms around him. "Push the air out."

 

Jaejoong shivers, gulping air, back bent painfully. "What—that makes no sense—"

 

With endless guilt, Yoochun digs his palm between Jaejoong's wet shoulder blades, gently prompting him to squat.

 

"Yawn," he tells Jaejoong softly, dropping to a crouch next to him, "like you're sleepy from correcting your pitch after a botched high note—"

 

Startled, Jaejoong laughs, sucking in air. He gives a small yawn and it grows, calming his chest.

 

"This is scary, it's so scary," Jaejoong chants, clutching the ends of a white fuzzy rug, "what if I break you."

 

Yeah.

 

Yoochun's already broken.

 

*

 

In the morning, Yoochun searches through Jaejoong's pants for his old phone.

 

Fending off a headache, he texts Yoohwan.

 

_08:01: me and jaejoong-hyung switched bodies, don't tell mom_

 

He expects a call back but all Yoohwan sends is,

 

_08:13 ...can i have your apartment_

 

*

 

In the middle of rhyming _goodbye_ with _stir fry_ , Yoochun glances at the calendar.

 

Fuck.

 

He grapples for his phone and dials... himself.

 

"Yoochunnie, we're gonna film _explosions_ ," Jaejoong answers excitedly, "what's wrong—"

 

Something detonates in the background.

 

Yoochun's not jealous.

 

"You have a date tonight," he says coldly. "...fuck. _I_ have a date. But _you_ have a date."

 

There's a weird silence.

 

"Who are you dating," Jaejoong says, icy.

 

"No," Yoochun sighs, rubbing at his forehead. An ink stain seeps into a wrinkle between Jaejoong's eyebrows, fuck, shit. Yoochun scrubs at it, staring at the monitor. "Yoon-seok-hyung set me up with some girl. I'm supposed to meet her at—"

 

"Oh," Jaejoong says as a string of curses rings out behind him. "Nah."

 

"What."

 

"You _had_ a date with her," Jaejoong says carelessly.

 

"What."

 

"I canceled that last week."

 

*

 

Bakira, or maybe it's Leo, or maybe it's some new fucking cat in Junsu's ever-growing armada of pets, pads over to Yoochun and insistently wraps its tail around his leg, purring.

 

Junsu narrows his eyes. "...who are you and what did you do to Jaejoong-hyung."

 

Yoochun purses his lips. "Hyung and me switched bodies."

 

Junsu stares for a moment.

 

One of the cats softly butts Yoochun's leg, seeking attention.

 

Yoochun contemplates snapping a pic and uploading it to dispel certain misconceptions about Jaejoong but the lack of reaction from Junsu is a little more pressing.

 

"Did your brain break."

 

Junsu rubs one eyebrow. "Huh, what? No, I was just trying to remember which one of you owes me more money and how I'd get it back if you don't switch back." He pauses, wrinkling his nose. "Legally, it'd be kinda iffy."

 

Yoochun tries not to draft a disbandment letter.

 

"So, any idea _how_ you switched bodies?" Junsu asks carefully, eyeing a tall bookcase.

 

"No."

  
"Too bad," Junsu sighs at the assortment of soccer memorabilia crowding the middle shelf, "if I knew how, I'd totally switch with Junho for a couple of hours."

 

"...why..."

 

Shamelessly, Junsu flicks his wrist at the bookshelf, "...I haven't cleaned that top shelf since I moved in..."

 

"GET A FUCKING LADDER."

 

*

 

Yoochun wakes up to thirty-seven missed texts.

 

Most of those are along the lines of _bro, I need a favor_ from unsavory characters who shouldn't even _have_ Jaejoong's fucking number, okay, so Yoochun secretly blocks them all.

 

A couple are from Jaejoong's sisters and Yoochun finds himself replying casually, familiarly, and saving motion-blurred pics of Jaejoong's nieces because Jaejoong tends to pull those up whenever he gets stuck writing lyrics—

 

Fuck.

 

Yoochun misses his phone.

 

Misses being himself.

 

Misses not intruding on shit he has nothing to do with.

 

This level of territorial encroachment, this kind of invasion of privacy—it was fine when they were stupid kids dorming together but they're adults now and...

 

Jaejoong flies past him, landing onto the bed with a giddy thump.

 

"Show me."

 

Yoochun does.

 

 

 

*

 

 _09:47 hwannie told me what happened_ , his mother texts on a Saturday morning.

 

_09:48 make sure you switch back before your cousin's wedding!!_

 

_*_

 

"If we don't get back to normal before my cousin's wedding," Yoochun mumbles awkwardly, poking at a seven-course meal Jaejoong randomly decided to prepare, "we'll have to go together."

 

Jaejoong pauses.

 

"Can I go with you even if we switch back."

 

Yoochun's stomach flips.

 

"Free booze, right," Jaejoong adds cautiously, not looking at Yoochun.

 

Yoochun has difficulty swallowing his next bite.

 

"Yeah."

 

*

 

In the shower, Yoochun wraps his fingers around a thing he shouldn't.

 

Briefly, he contemplates watching himself stroke off in front of a mirror.

 

But that would be too fucked up.

 

*

 

"How many under par were you," Yoochun groans into the phone.

 

"...I was twenty-five on a par five?" Jaejoong mumbles. "I don't even know what that means."

 

Yoochun mentally calculates how many rounds of drinks it will take to erase this disaster from his golfer hyungs' memories. "What was your handicap."

 

"...uh, thirty-eight?"

 

"That's not... possible, the course only has—" Yoochun tries to bite back a shit-eating, face-splitting grin. "Are you randomly throwing numbers at me."

 

Jaejoong cackles and hangs up.

 

*

 

Yoochun's fucking everything up.

 

Nothing he's written or arranged for Jaejoong seems good enough.

 

Nothing he's said to prospective girlfriends and boyfriends and hookups was nice.

 

He throws his head back, works a couple kinks out of his neck, and rises.

 

Fishing.

 

Fuck it, he wants to go night-fishing.

 

It's four in the morning so Jaejoong's probably still filming near the docks. Maybe Yoochun could just casually drop by. Ask if Jaejoong feels like joining him.

 

Nah.

 

Jaejoong's probably going to be exhausted and—

 

Yoochun's phone beeps.

 

_04:26 yoochunnie, i need to go fishing_

 

*

 

It's fucking cold.

 

And the little cruiser they've... essentially stolen isn't anchored properly so they'll maybe float to Australia by November—

 

"It's probably warmer in Australia," Jaejoong nods, sprawled atop the flat curved bow. "But they have fire tornadoes..."

 

Yoochun grins.

 

Sleepy, he stretches next to Jaejoong, back protesting.

 

Jaejoong remains quiet for a long time, staring at the stars then eyeing Yoochun's discarded phone, clearly tempted to update his seven million social networks.

 

"If you could switch with anyone in the world," he asks Yoochun instead, softly, curiously, "who would it be?"

 

Yoochun squints at the dark sky. "Hyun-bin."

 

Jaejoong gives him an oddly offended look, knocking their feet together. "Don't you wanna know who I'd switch with?"

 

"Also Hyun-bin?"

 

Jaejoong kicks him again, but his hip is pressed against Yoochun's and he's fighting a smile and Yoochun can't stop grinning, either.

 

"It'd be you," Jaejoong says.

 

Yoochun's gut twists.

 

"What."

 

Jaejoong turns his head and so does Yoochun and the tips of their noses touch, cold.

 

"You're perfect," Jaejoong says easily, watching Yoochun as though he's building a universe with _Yoochun's_ eyes, scripting a confession with _Yoochun's_ voice, letting words escape from _Yoochun's_ lips and Yoochun's kept them trapped for ten years and Jaejoong can't fucking do this.

 

"Weird," he tells Jaejoong, too smoothly, "doesn't seem like you need glasses."

 

Jaejoong just stares at him.

 

Uncomfortable, Yoochun looks away. "Maybe I need glasses, I guess."

 

Jaejoong inches closer.

 

Yoochun's borrowed heart feels unfamiliar, too strong and too intense for his ribcage to hold, and then he notices.

 

"Why are we holding hands."

 

With a shrug, Jaejoong squeezes harder. "I like your hands."

 

Yoochun forgets how to breathe.

 

"I think I just wanted..." Jaejoong starts quietly, tugging their hands up as though to examine them, "your fingers. And then your hands. And then..." He nudges Yoochun's shoulder with his chin. "The rest of you."

 

These are not things Jaejoong should ever say.

 

These are things that should never fall off Yoochun's lips because he's kept them secret and sheltered and buried for so long and Jaejoong has _no right_ to parrot empty words he can't possibly mean, Yoochun hasn't given him permission to use his body for _that_ —

 

"You should get back on set," he murmurs, and adds, "hyung."

 

Jaejoong starts, looking ready to argue, but then closes his mouth.

 

"Okay."

 

*

 

Jaejoong tumbles into the guest room, wearing a white mickey mouse tee and dark pajama pants. Groggy, he yawns, phone loosely clutched in one hand, "Your mom asked me to wear something you'd never wear to your cousin's wedding."

 

Yoochun peeks under a pillow, disoriented.

 

"She means a suit, Yoochunnie," Jaejoong explains, sounding amused. "She's very happy about this, apparently."

 

Yoochun burrows back under the pillow.

 

*

 

"If you win an award for this movie," Jaejoong greets, collapsing next to Yoochun on the couch, barely awake, "you'll _have_ _to_ say my name."

 

*

 

Two weeks in, Yoochun leans his forehead against the full-length mirror in the bathroom, panting, naked, flushed.

 

He strokes himself slowly, trying not to look.

 

He ends up watching the mirror throughout.

 

*

 

"She's coming at me like a freight train," Jaejoong hisses into the phone. "You. She's coming at you like a freight train."

 

Yoochun vaguely remembers the girl currently trying to violate his body across town. "Just tell her no."

 

"Did _you_ tell her no," Jaejoong asks darkly, struggling.

 

Yoochun shouldn't feel guilty, but.

 

"Okay," Jaejoong says and sounds nothing like himself, sounds entirely too much like Yoochun when people lean in and whisper _is Jaejoong single_.

 

"Wait," Yoochun starts with worry, "what are you gonna—"

 

The line goes dead.

 

*

 

Yoochun slips into a thin sweater, brushing his fingers over his ribs along the way.

 

He bangs a hipbone against a bathroom counter and swears.

 

Fuck it.

 

He's going to eat fourteen burgers.

 

If Jaejoong can plow random girls while in his body, then—

 

_22:09 which one of you is this_

 

Yoochun narrows his eyes at his phone.

 

He texts Junsu back on his way out the door.

 

*

 

"This is weird," Junsu comments as they pull up cheap plastic chairs behind some remote street cart.

 

Yoochun twists the cap off a bottle of soju and downs it.

 

"...I don't think an ambulance will come out this far..." Junsu warns, tentatively poking at his food.

 

"I want my body back," Yoochun growls, slamming the bottle to the wobbly little table. It tilts to the side.

 

Junsu sighs.

 

"Do you want to go see a doctor?" he asks, splaying his fingers across the table. "Or some mountain shaman?"

 

Yoochun cocks his head. "Are you still reading manga."

 

"More importantly," Junsu rushes on, "are you and hyung fighting? Because he stole two of my cats today."

 

"We're not fighting," Yoochun snaps, knuckles white around the bottle, "we just—"

 

"Need to have sex."

 

Yoochun blanches.

 

"It's wrong," Junsu lectures piously, "but if you want your body back, you either need to have some great epiphany or some great sex—"

 

"...which manga is that from."

 

*

 

"Junsu wants his cats back," Yoochun greets, tossing Jaejoong's keys to the table.

 

Jaejoong snuggles deeper into the couch, trying to lure one of the cats out. "He actually noticed four of them missing?"

 

Yoochun pauses.

 

"Well," he raises a contemplative eyebrow, mostly at himself. "He noticed two of them missing."

 

Jaejoong's lips curl. He bats a hand at a twitching tail tucked under the couch. "Help me get this one out."

 

Patient, Yoochun folds himself on the floor by Jaejoong's head. "We need to talk."

 

One of the cats pokes its head out and affectionately bops Yoochun's knee with its nose.

 

Jaejoong makes a sad face. "What do you want to talk about."

 

Yoochun steels himself.

 

"Hyung," he starts, almost formally, "has it always been this hard."

 

All emotion fades from Jaejoong's face.

 

"To be you," Yoochun finishes.

 

Jaejoong sits up, arms at his sides, head down. "I want my body back, Yoochun-ah."

 

"I know, I'm sorry you're stuck in mine," Yoochun offers miserably, resting his palms on Jaejoong's knees. "I'm _trying_ —"

 

"That's not why," Jaejoong grinds out, frustrated. He lunges forward and roughly grabs Yoochun's face.

 

All feeling departs Yoochun's body but then he feels everything at once.

 

"Gross," he deflects, shaky, "I don't want to kiss myself."

 

Jaejoong doesn't say anything but his ears twitch.

 

Yoochun pauses, realization dawning. "...do _you_ want to kiss yourself."

 

"...a little..."

 

Yoochun stares for a moment, his borrowed heart riding out its capacity.

 

"Too bad," he grins at last and almost says,

 

_I only want to kiss you._

 

*

 

Yoochun doesn't really notice anything unusual for, like, the whole morning.

 

But then his head is smashed into an unfamiliar pillow, face-down, so hard he feels the start of a migraine build behind his eyelids.

 

"Guess who."

 

Either a polar bear or

 

"Hyung."

 

A warm weight settles atop his ass, skinny legs straddling his sides.

 

"Yoochunnie," comes a soft voice. "I have my body back."

 

"Congratulations," Yoochun grunts, adjusting to a different set of vocal cords. "Let me sleep for a couple more hours and I'll move out."

 

Jaejoong grinds his bony butt down.

 

"No," he says firmly. "Your apartment's got ghosts. I won't let them have you."

 

Yoochun grins into the pillow, shaking Jaejoong's fingers out of his hair. He shifts under the sheets, stretching. His body feels so familiar, comfortable, loved and worn and beautiful.

 

"Help me pack."  
  


*

 

_23:59 did you steal my night cream_

 

Yoochun glances at his bathroom counter.

 

He stole three.

 

_00:01 you can come get it_

 

*

 

Jaejoong doesn't.

 

*

 

Yoochun falls back into a healthy routine.

 

He films and golfs and doesn't think about Jaejoong's ribs or the exploitative douchebags surrounding him. He doesn't think about the heavy familiar weight of Jaejoong's cock in his hands. Doesn't think about Jaejoong incorporating Yoochun's favorite lyrics into a trending song.

 

Doesn't think about Jaejoong.

 

*

 

 

Jaejoong lands back in Seoul and two hours later, Yoochun's fending him off at the door.

 

" _Wedding_ ," he reminds, wrestling with Yoochun's slap-happy hands, "I promised your mom, stop it—"

 

Yoochun ducks and squirms but Jaejoong wears him down.

 

Exhausted, Yoochun gives him a side-glance. "You coming with me?"

 

Jaejoong shrugs. "Free booze, right."

 

*

 

Some dude texts Jaejoong during the reception.

 

Reflexively, Yoochun wraps his fingers around the phone and tugs.

 

"Did you just block Seung-woo?" Jaejoong laughs, amused, and bumps his shoulder against Yoochun's.

 

"I don't know who that is," Yoochun reasons, then realizes what the fuck he's doing. "Sorry."

 

Jaejoong brings his face closer. "It's fine."

 

Frustrated, Yoochun slips a hand under the table and sinks his fingers into Jaejoong's knee. "Don't do that."

 

Genuinely confused, Jaejoong frowns, lips parting.

 

"This," Yoochun cuts him off, "is what makes people want to fix you."

 

Jaejoong smiles.

 

"Yoochunnie," he asks warmly, "what part of me is broken."

 

*

 

Yoochun wakes up grumpy.

 

Jaejoong's words seem to be permanently tattooed everywhere on Yoochun's body, like points on a map.

 

So he grabs a beanie and his wallet and jumps into his car.

 

He stops for coffee and a leave-in conditioner.

 

When he ambles into the studio, feeling like an outsider, Jaejoong's bent over the soundboard, headphones on, ridiculous beanie pulled low on his head, and Yoochun's heart swells.

 

"Hyung," he calls out but Jaejoong doesn't respond.

 

Calm, Yoochun draws closer and kicks at his chair.

 

With an adorable startled noise, Jaejoong swivels around, slipping the headphones down. He takes in Yoochun's face first, expression softening, then drags his gaze lower to the proffered coffee cup.

 

"Witchcraft," he sighs softly, lips twitching.

 

Yoochun hands him the coffee then leans against the soundboard. "So I thought about it."

 

Wary, Jaejoong blows into the cup even though the coffee's probably cold.

 

Yoochun slides the leave-in conditioner across the keyboard.

 

Jaejoong grins, scratching at his hairline. "What did you think about, Chun-ah."

 

"You."

 

Jaejoong almost drops his coffee.

 

"Look," he says, uncomfortable, "the stuff I said when I was... you—"

 

"Do you know why I wouldn't switch with you," Yoochun interrupts, digging his palms into the edge of the soundboard.

 

"...because I fried my hair..."

 

"Because," Yoochun growls, frustrated, "I don't want to _be_ you."

 

Jaejoong looks away, hurt.

 

Fuck.

 

No.

 

That's not...

 

"I want to be _with_ you," Yoochun amends desperately, tugging his beanie down. "I want..." he murmurs under his breath. "I just want... you."

 

Jaejoong is quiet for a long time.

 

Way too fucking long.

 

Numb, Yoochun pushes off the soundboard and starts for the door.

 

Jaejoong grabs his wrist.

 

Pulls him down, drags him to a crouch on the floor, trapped between Jaejoong's knees.

 

"I'm so happy I'm me," he says and it should sound egotistical and conceited and awful but he presses his lips to the corner of Yoochun's with a soft happy sigh.

 

It's eight in the morning on a gloomy Tuesday inside a small acoustic room and all of that should be irrelevant but it's not, it's how Yoochun met Jaejoong the first time, ten years ago, and the way he looked at him then, the way he's looking at him now, the way he'll look at him forty years from now, and how Yoochun just instantly _knew_ —

 

Needy, he slides his lips to the side, covering Jaejoong's.

 

Jaejoong just fucking melts against him, into him, slips his hands around Yoochun's neck, rocks in his chair, and Yoochun surges forward, a harsh exhale of breath, crushes his lips harder, licks into Jaejoong's mouth, tasting coffee and everything good in the world.

 

A white-hot possessive kind of greed spreads through his body, tightening his skin, and he's going to fucking _destroy_ Jaejoong—

 

"Wait," Jaejoong gasps, pushing him away, "wait."

 

Yoochun can't.

 

Shaking, lips red and wet and addictive, Jaejoong paws for Yoochun's phone.

 

"What are you doing," Yoochun asks, voice low and rough.

 

"Texting Yoohwannie," Jaejoong smiles, breathless but so beautiful it bruises Yoochun's heart, "gotta tell him he can have your apartment."

 

Overwhelmed, Yoochun grins stupidly. "What about the ghosts."

 

Jaejoong pauses, then says, "You're the only person they can't have."


	14. homin

Changmin either chooses Yunho because Yunho bought him the stupid camera or because Yunho has infinite patience.

 

Or because Yunho is photogenic.

 

Or because shut up.

 

It doesn't actually matter because, yeah, it's awkward to snap photos of Yunho in progressively less appropriate poses, but what if Changmin plans to become a photographer, an actual artist, what then, hyung.

 

Except when they scroll through the display, in most of the pictures, Changmin's finger is half-covering the lens.

 

Accidentally.

 

Changmin's just an amateur, after all, shit happens, what can you do, hyung.

 

So he has to retake the shots, one by one, posing Yunho this way and that, complaining how this is hard on _him_ , too, probably harder than on Yunho who just has to stand there, come on, but it's educational, isn't it educational, and doesn't hyung want Changmin to have a good education.

 

Hyung does.

 

And so maybe Changmin pauses and decides that natural light is best for portraits so he insistently shoos Yunho off the wall and toward his tidy new bed, because Changmin's headboard faces west now and the sun is setting soon, winter and all, so why doesn't hyung just rest.

 

And maybe Changmin gets sleepy and needs to sit down somewhere for a moment, too, because photography is so taxing, just tiring, really stressful, okay.

 

So he maybe mounts the mattress and straddles Yunho a little because, you know, you need a good angle to take good photographs, and footing is important, anchors are important, Changmin doesn't make the rules, that's just how it is, and this solves the problem of taking a break, kills two birds with one stone, how efficient, don't you think.

 

And perhaps Changmin has to move and shift and squirm above Yunho in a specific way because, you know, he can cast a nice long shadow across Yunho's body with his because the sun's setting through the blinds and it's just, you know, really flattering lighting and who doesn't like flattering lighting and flattering angles and flattering photographs, you should be grateful, hyung, I could be out doing so many other things instead.

 

And then the long camera strap gets in the way, probably, sways from this perfect, flawless angle, obstructs the view, so maybe Yunho has to grab it, keep it out of the way, bat at it with a soft laugh.

 

Maybe he gets his wrists tangled in it.

 

Accidentally.

 

Maybe the strap binds his hands, tugs them toward Changmin, towards the lens, framing the shot in all the right ways, wrong ways, best ways.

 

Maybe Yunho sobers, tries to struggle free, says that's probably enough, Changminnie.

 

Maybe Changmin doesn't hear him.

 

'Cause what if he's just so busy, too busy using his free hand to artistically, just for the art, purely for the craft, tug Yunho's loose warm sweater down, below his collarbone, a path of pebbled flesh peeking above the fuzzy wool.

 

It's the perfect shot, of course, Changmin thinks modestly, a soft focus on a hard juncture, unusual perspective and no negative space, only red parted lips and a gently curving slope of skin.

 

Oh, wait, running low on memory, why not, happens to pros, too, so can't Yunho just stay a bit longer, chill out and relax while Changmin grabs another card real quick, super quick, and what, no, hyung, it's not gonna be too dark by the time I come back, there's lamps, we've invented lamps, I have ten, look around.

 

And because Changmin has lamps, ten of them, Yunho stays.

 

And because lamps are really hot and wool sweaters are really hot and Changmin's fingers are also hot, hotter than all those things and the sun combined, Yunho should take the warm fuzzy suffocating thing off, the color's all wrong anyway, just ruins, totally fucks up the composition, hyung.

 

And because Yunho's patience is infinite, just like his affection for Changmin is infinite, Yunho takes his sweater off, takes his inhibitions off, too, accidentally, unintentionally, curls into Changmin's white satin sheets and smiles at the camera, helplessly, gladly.

  
Heart decaying, Changmin focuses in.

 

In the morning, he chooses Yunho all over again.


	15. homin

* * *

_**warning** : dub-con  
_

* * *

_You want me to stay, right,_ Changmin says, awash with anticipation, filled to the brim with a reckless scary greedy surge of hope.

_Please,_ Yunho says brokenly.

_If I stay,_ Changmin says, trails off, digs his fingers into Yunho’s knee, tries not to smile stupidly as an attorney rounds the corner and nears their bench, _hyung,_ _what do I get._

_...whatever you want,_ Yunho offers innocently, desperately.

 

 

*

 

So.

 

 

*

 

Yunho goes out.

 

Goes out to get drunk and depressed and Changmin lets him, encourages it, instigates and enables Yunho, says _come on, hyung, just go meet up with your friends, relax, work some shit out, come back home, sleep it off._

_I’ll be here._

 

Adopts it as an alibi, really, except this isn’t a crime—it’s a reward, repayment, compensation for a promise.

 

It’s positive reinforcement, for both of them.

 

Yunho doesn’t get it.

 

Clueless, he overlooks an obvious trap, even sends Changmin grateful warm glances when he tucks his feet into his boots and leaves.

 

And when he comes back, rain-soaked and worn out by emotions and appeased by alcohol, Changmin’s waiting in the hush of their dark apartment, where it’s just him and Yunho now, where it’s only ever been the two of them.

_You’re not sleeping,_ Yunho says, passes by the couch, brushes against Changmin’s knees, clumsily steps on Changmin’s feet.

 

Changmin reaches out.

 

Wraps shaky hands around Yunho’s arms and pulls him down, folds Yunho into his lap, anchors Yunho’s ass to his crotch.

 

With quiet bemusement, Yunho lets him.

 

Like a spider’s web, sticky and inescapable, Changmin slips his arms around Yunho’s waist, buries his face between Yunho’s shoulder blades, and unzips him.

 

Yunho starts.

_Hyung, I stayed,_ Changmin warns sternly, _I stayed with you._

 

Yunho tenses.

 

It’s meticulous, almost cruel, but this is Changmin’s reward.

 

Changmin deserves this.

_Changminnie,_ Yunho says falteringly, struggling, but it’s the kind of useless attempt of someone resigned to wander a labyrinth without keys and exits, _I know you’re depressed but this won’t—_

 

Changmin’s not depressed.

 

He’s ready.

 

So he shoves Yunho off his lap, presses him face-down into the couch, pushes him deep into a nest of soft clean blankets, covers his body like an eclipse, sticks to Yunho’s back as though they’re both strips of tape.

_You didn’t take your shoes off,_ he murmurs into Yunho’s nape, _so I’ll do it for you._

 

He pushes his hands under Yunho’s stomach, roughly claws for his unyielding waistband, pops a button, drags the wet jeans down Yunho’s ass and only to there, draws his fingers back up, scrapes against heat and sweat and smoothness.

 

Spreads Yunho open.

 

Startled, Yunho groans, hides his face, burrows into a blanket.

 

Changmin crowds him, breath catching, hips rolling. Impatient, he lifts up briefly, shoves his pajama pants and boxers down, violently kicks them off, hipbones digging into the small of Yunho’s back with each kick.

_I didn’t mean this_ , Yunho says softly, voice thick, muffled by the blankets, fingers clasped behind his head as though in surrender.

 

Or apology.

_Lift your ass_ , Changmin says because he’s watched Yunho bend, has seen him worn out and dizzy and split with pain, knows his breaking points and limits and thresholds.

 

Means to push beyond them.

 

Yunho shifts obediently, readjusts, props himself up on his elbows, locks his knees, angles his hips, shaking, flushed everywhere, drunk and angry and disappointed, head down.

 

Changmin loops his arms under Yunho’s waist and yanks him close, stares at the red and white lines staining Yunho’s skin where the jeans are cutting into it, and rocks, sinks his cock between Yunho’s cheeks, experimentally, snugly, slides the underside of it up, down, up, bends over Yunho to gain purchase, throbbing.

 

Tries to push in.

_No_ , Yunho says, goes to shake him off, hesitates, _let me go_.

_You made me stay_ , Changmin says, bites his bottom lip, guides himself properly and tries again, _so why would I ever let you leave._


	16. mixed

  *  bonus ficlet for [shim-jung-love](http://shim-jung-love.tumblr.com/)'s birthday: cats versus dogs, literally



 

* * *

 

 

It's a trap.

 

Changmin's fully aware it's a trap.

 

But he follows the trail of tuna flakes anyway.

 

And then he's unceremoniously shoved into a small carrier and dumped into the back of some metal nightmare.

 

"Shouldn't have touched the tuna," the other kitten says with sympathy, small crate rattling against Changmin's.

 

*

 

"Here you go," the human says, unlatching the door.

 

Suspicious, Changmin inspects the human from the depths of his carrier, curled up against the farthest dark corner.

 

"Come out," the human says, less patiently.

 

Changmin doesn't.

 

"...okay, how about you, Jaejoong," the human sighs, patting the crate next to Changmin.

 

Undaunted, a fluffy white kitten strolls out, affectionately headbutting the human's outstretched palm.

 

Changmin narrows his eyes.

 

*

 

"Junsu-yah, seriously," tall human says. "You bought _two_."

 

Changmin pauses at his water bowl, tongue out.

 

"Well, I really only wanted the white one but the black one goes with our furniture," his human says flippantly, squatting to pet Changmin's head. "Besides, hyung, Mother let you get two puppies, so it's only fair, right."

 

"That's different," tall human argues, leaning against the wall, "I got one for my birthday and one for _Christmas_."

 

"...hyung," short human points out, "we have the same birthday..."

 

"Yeah but," tall human says, faltering, "what's wrong with this one. Why's he so tiny."

 

Guarded, Changmin laps at the water, studiously ignoring him.

 

"Nothing's wrong with him," short human grins affectionately, gently scratching behind Changmin's ears. "He's just _cute_."

 

...Changmin is not cute.

 

Changmin is a ferocious beast.

 

He lets out a savage little mewl at his human's ankle as proof.

 

His human makes a soft overwhelmed noise and kisses Changmin on the head.

 

It's gross.

*

 

Changmin forces one eye open.

 

Jaejoong's sprawled atop him, keeping Changmin sufficiently warm and sleepy, but the noise.

 

"They're here," tall human howls excitedly, rushing for the door, socks slipping off his feet.

 

A small group of quiet humans rolls in a large crate and everything's just so loud and so smelly that Changmin has to shake Jaejoong off and slip to the floor and pad over.

 

One of the humans unhooks the crate and a thing instantly barrels out.

 

It's small and fluffy and mostly gray, with weird sloping markings around its eyes and dark pointy ears.

 

All four feet planted firmly on the ground, it darts its eyes everywhere, tongue wagging.

 

And then it notices Changmin.

 

With a curious huff, it leaps over tall human's feet and lands before Changmin's face.

 

Horrified, Changmin hisses and recoils, back arching in warning, tail a straight threatening line.

 

But the dumb thing bounds closer anyway, uninvited and clumsy, and bends its head with interest.

 

It takes one quick excited sniff, touching a tentative paw to Changmin's left ear, and cocks its head.

 

And then it licks him.

 

Just drags its disgusting tongue down the length of Changmin's back, thick fluffy tail wagging maniacally.

 

Another thing tumbles out of the crate, golden-brown but smaller and rounder and fuzzier, barking, "Yunho, don't touch it, it's a CAT."

 

*

 

 

"No, Changmin complains, pacing the floor. "We were here first."

 

Calm, Jaejoong licks one pink paw, lazing in the sunlight. "By a day."

 

"Okay, but that is mine," Changmin hisses, pointing his tail at the couch, claws flexing. "And that. And that. And this. All of it is mine."

 

Jaejoong puts his paw down, unimpressed. "What about me."

 

"You can have the piano," Changmin allows.

 

"What can I have," Yunho asks eagerly, appearing out of literally nowhere and breathing down Changmin's neck.

 

Startled, Changmin flies two feet into the air.

 

*

 

"This is where you pee," Changmin instructs, suggestively wrapping himself around a potted plant. "Your human _really_ likes it when we go here."

 

Yunho wags his tail, listening obediently.

 

"I'll go tell Yoochun," he says and taps one soft paw to the rug with a grateful little nip.

 

Satisfied, Changmin slinks off.

 

*

 

"NO," tall human shouts, "BAD, YUNHO, BAD _DOG,_ NO—"

 

Changmin's ears twitch.

 

Curled up on the windowsill, he hides a smug grin behind a warm paw, and naps.

 

 

*

 

 

A soft broken whine wakes him up.

 

Yunho's balled up by the piano, ears flat, tail tucked, snout trembling.

 

Unperturbed, Changmin closes his eyes again but there's...

 

...something.

 

"Why would you think that was a good idea," Yoochun asks with a sad whine, slumping near Yunho.

 

"The kitten told me to," Yunho says miserably, ducking his head lower.

 

Changmin shrinks back, feigning sleep.

 

"...please don't listen to the kitten anymore," Yoochun grumbles, nudging Yunho's shoulder.

 

 

*

 

 

"This is your fault," Jaejoong meows loudly, stubbornly fending their human off but it's a losing battle.

 

The water rises and rises and rises and Changmin grudgingly sinks into the tub, letting his human grip him by the scruff.

 

"They got us dirty on purpose," Jaejoong wails, sputtering through the spray, soap bubbles matting his fur down, "this is your fault, Changmin—and dogs. Stupid dogs, ah, my fur, my beautiful fur—"

 

A caked-on piece of mud slips off Changmin's furious head.

 

 

*

 

 

"Stop it," short human warns, watching from the doorway, hands full of school books.

 

Predatory, Jaejoong shifts his hind legs, kneading at a cushion, target locked.

 

"Junsu-yah, leave them alone," tall human says, dropping one hand to his lap to pet Yoochun's fuzzy ears, "they're just playing."

 

Nope.

 

On Changmin's signal, Jaejoong surges forward and viciously swipes at Yoochun's snout.

 

Yoochun gives a pained yowl and jerks up, accidentally smacking his human in the jaw.

 

Relentless, Changmin dives at the mess, mauling at a whole thing of squirming dog until something bites down on his hind leg and violently shakes him off the couch.

 

" _No_ ," Yunho growls around Changmin's fur, fangs bared.

 

*

 

So now there's a gate between the kitchen and the living room.

 

*

 

"I can jump over it anytime," Changmin taunts, patrolling the divider.

 

"... _I_ can't..." Jaejoong sighs mournfully, mewling at the latch.

 

Well, okay, Changmin probably can't either because he's only two months old but one day.

 

One day he'll for sure outgrow even that tall human.

 

"If I wanted to," he bluffs, "I could jump. But I don't want to. All the warm things are on this side."

 

Jaejoong perks up.

 

Yoochun, who's sprawled across the kitchen tile and snuffling at the gate, sighs. "And all the food is on this side."

 

...that is a very good point.

 

Next to Yoochun, Yunho nuzzles the gate. "Are you hungry."

 

Well.

 

Always.

 

"No," Changmin huffs, turning his nose up.

 

It's fine.

 

Because his human will come home and feed him.

 

 

*

 

Changmin's human does not come home.

 

 

*

 

 

"I'm thirsty," Jaejoong whines at Changmin, obnoxiously loud.

 

"No, you're not," Changmin assures, grooming the back of his paw.

 

"And I'm hungry," Jaejoong meows, rubbing his nose at Changmin with a desperate hiss. "Changmin, I'm hungry."

 

Changmin's stomach growls.

 

*

 

"Please be good or you'll have to go back," his human reminds them in passing, rushing from one door to the other, arms laden with books and pencils and calculators.

 

Jaejoong winds between his feet, demanding food.

 

But their human leaves again.

 

*

 

Changmin is so hungry.

 

And so thirsty.

 

And a little cold.

 

Defeated, he prowls back to the gate.

 

He sits himself down politely and waits.

 

"You're hungry," Yunho says, huddled by the wall.

 

"I'm hungry," Changmin admits.

 

Quietly, Yunho unwinds and trudges into the dark recesses of the kitchen.

 

"I'm not helping," Yoochun yawns, scooting his butt around so he doesn't have to look.

 

There's a thump and a whine and then Yunho plods back, dragging a ripped bag of food between his teeth, morsels spilling behind him.

 

Jaejoong appears as though summoned.

 

Carefully, Yunho drops the bag.

 

Food scatters through the bars.

 

It's messy and Changmin's never messy but he's hungry so he buries his head in the food and inhales.

 

*

 

"You're thirsty," Yunho says.

 

Changmin crowds closer, ears flat. "I'm thirsty."

 

*

 

"I'm not doing this," Jaejoong protests primly as Yunho prods at Yoochun's water bowl, inching it closer to the gate.

 

Changmin headbutts him, tail swishing.

 

Disheartened, Jaejoong sticks a paw through the gate, dipping it into the bowl.

 

*

 

"You're cold," Changmin says.

 

Yunho curls up. "I'm cold."

 

*

 

"Push harder," Changmin instructs from the sidelines.

 

Yunho plants himself firmly against the gate, front paws almost reaching the top of it.

 

"Help him," Jaejoong whines at Yoochun.

 

Yoochun hesitates. "If we break it, we'll get sent back."

 

Changmin doesn't want to get sent back.

 

Changmin likes his couch and his chair and his window and his human.

 

But Yunho shouldn't be cold.

 

So Changmin drops down to a crouch, wiggles his butt, and vaults over the gate.

 

He lands with a soft thud, shocked.

 

"I told you I could do it," he brags but his paws are shaking.

 

Happy, Yunho leans harder into the gate, tail wagging.

 

Changmin leans too and so does Yoochun and then the wood yields, the latch springs open, one bottom rung breaks, and the gate falls.

 

*

 

This is Changmin's couch.

 

Shamelessly, Yoochun sprints forward, claiming a spot under Changmin's blanket.

 

Jaejoong lumbers ahead, then gracefully hops atop.

 

"It's really cold," Changmin says.

 

Gingerly, Yunho gives a small nod and climbs up, burrowing under the blanket.

 

Changmin waits.

 

"It's your couch," Jaejoong prompts, muffled beneath a golden-brown paw.

 

It's Changmin's couch, so he scales the side of it and reluctantly tucks himself by Yunho's belly.

 

Yunho shifts and swings a paw over, gathering him closer.

 

Changmin's not purring, okay.

 

Changmin's just warm.

 

*

 

"IT'S YOUR CATS' FAULT."

 

"IT WAS YOUR STUPID DOGS', HYUNG, HOW WOULD TWO _KITTENS_ TAKE DOWN A GATE AND DESTROY THE PANTRY—"

 

Changmin cracks one eye open, peeking over Yunho's paw, Jaejoong's tail bopping him on the nose.

 

"I waited until your finals were over to tell you," mother human says, "...but four is too many."

 

There's a long horrible silence.

 

And then someone is lifting the blanket.

 

"Changmin," his human says grimly. "Come here."

 

Acquiescing, Changmin extricates himself from a pile of limbs.

 

It's probably a trap.

 

But it's okay.


	17. jaechun

  * for [lovebyelove](http://tmblr.co/mkgbdL2hCbTnAOmoVzAVkww); Yoochun's new elite-bodyguard figure [jaechun]



 

* * *

 

 

Yoochun has slept for fourteen hours.

 

Is still sort of sleeping when he lumbers into the dressing room, sweatpants sagging, slippers mismatched, bedhair sticking up in protest.

 

A coordi noona spots him and crosses herself in horror.

 

"Hey," he greets with a sleepy wave.

 

"You hear anything," Junsu asks, sulking in a makeup chair.

 

Jaejoong shrugs, playing on his phone one chair over, white mask covering his mouth. "Nope."

 

Okay, fine.

 

Fine, Yoochun's been a little MIA, but he texted.

 

Like. A month ago.

 

He totally texted them both a month ago.

 

"Let's... _try_ today, Yoochun-ssi," noona says forlornly, sweeping him behind a thick curtain and shoving a thing of leather at his chest.

 

Robotically, Yoochun sheds his clothes, napping against the wall mirror between tugs.

 

"I beat your high score," Junsu eukyangkyangs in the distance.

 

Jaejoong gives a soft snort.

 

...Yoochun's not jealous.

 

Yoochun's got two days off for rehearsals and this photoshoot and then it's back to the set and back to the gym and back to—

 

What's wrong with these pants.

 

Scowling, he wriggles his ass, aggressively pulling on the inflexible waistband.

 

With effort, he manages to slide the pants over his cheeks, briefs catching on the zipper, leather pulling tight around his hips and pinching the swell of his ass. He zips up, uncomfortable, pops a button through the hole, and warily inspects himself for damage.

 

"Yoochun-ssi," noona warns, poking her head in and proffering a weird mesh shirt, "we're already behind schedule—" She trails off, gaze dropping to his crotch, then traveling up and over his bare hipbones and naked chest. "Oh... no," she moans and disappears in a flurry of anxiety.

 

Confused, Yoochun grabs at the empty air behind her, disturbingly shirtless.

 

"Noona," he calls, stepping out with a hesitant scowl, "I probably kinda need the rest of the outfit—"

 

Junsu's heads swivels around.

 

"... _no_ ," he complains, offended.

 

Yoochun catches an accidental glimpse of himself in the string of reflecting mirrors.

 

Yeah, he's definitely too old to cosplay a vampiric hooker.

 

Uneasy, he tries to play it off because it's just Junsu and just Jaejoong and this isn't embarrassing at all, so, "...can I borrow a shirt."

 

Upset, Junsu rises, prowling around to inspect Yoochun's back. "It's not gonna get bigger, right."

 

Yoochun raises a baffled eyebrow.

 

"Don't let it get bigger," Junsu threatens with menace. "I'll go find you a shirt." He pauses, contemplating. "Maybe a burlap sack."

 

And then he shuffles out into the hallway, snapping his head around, apparently on a mission.

 

It's pretty pointless asking Jaejoong for a shirt, on account of Jaejoong being allergic to them, but Yoochun turns sad eyes to him anyway. "Hyung."

 

Oddly tense, Jaejoong crosses his legs, sinks deeper into the chair, and lowers his mask.

 

"We're too old for this," Yoochun grumbles, awkwardly scratching the back of his neck.

 

"Mm?" Jaejoong blinks owlishly, tongue darting out to sweep across his bottom lip.

 

"I can't wear these," Yoochun insists and gestures at his crotch, doing a stiff half-turn to indicate the area of distress. The leather pulls on his skin as he moves, plumping up one asscheek and cutting into his important bits.

 

"Yea," Jaejoong agrees after a long beat, lips parting. "Yea. Maybe take them off."

 

Deeply regretting his trainer's dictatorial command to load up on proteins and carbs and to ~buff up or die, Yoochun meets Jaejoong's eyes.

 

"Look, I don't like this, either," he murmurs, self-conscious, but fuck, the role of an elite bodyguard requires certain—

 

—wait, what's wrong with Jaejoong.

 

"Hyung," Yoochun starts with sudden worry, crossing the distance and pressing the inside of his wrist to Jaejoong's burning forehead. "Are you still sick."

 

"Apparently," Jaejoong says softly.

 

And unbuttons Yoochun's pants.

 

A shiver runs down Yoochun's stomach, pooling low. "What are you doing."

 

Jaejoong pauses. "Helping."

 

Yoochun wraps his fingers around Jaejoong's wrists.

 

Yeah.

 

The problem with staying away for so long, with putting so much distance between them, is that all Yoochun's body suddenly wants to do is close it.

 

"Nah, I got it," he tells Jaejoong and drops his wrists, takes an unhurried step back and definitely avoids looking at himself in the mirror.

 

"Pantylines," Jaejoong drawls.

 

Yoochun accidentally meets his eyes in one of the mirrors, gaze slipping to his own ass, mirrored in perpetuity throughout the small dressing room.

 

Fuck.

 

Tension knotting his back, he stalks back to the curtain and unzips in the booth, peels the pants down his ass—his skin prickles—down his thighs—his junk stirs at the lingering feeling of Jaejoong's fingertips—down to the ground, pooling in a dark shiny mess by his bare feet.

 

On a harsh exhale, he shoves his fingers under the waistband of his briefs and tugs them down, skin pebbling, nipples hardening.

 

...too many mirrors.

 

There are too many mirrors everywhere and Yoochun's been asleep for so long, literally and figuratively, that his body's reacting to the tiniest dumb things.

 

"You sure you don't need help," Jaejoong asks softly, sounding too close.

 

"Yeah," Yoochun answers, shutting his eyes tight.

 

"I just thought..." Jaejoong offers innocently, "...with your busted shoulder..."

 

Oh, right.

 

Slowly, carefully, Yoochun steps out of the bunched up pile of pants and briefs on the floor, then leans against the mirror, fingers aching to touch.

 

"Okay," he finds himself saying quietly, back warm despite the cold mirror carving into it.

 

There's no reply from Jaejoong so Yoochun breathes a sigh of relief because something crucial has briefly snapped inside him, and irrational and sleep-deprived and exhausted as he is, mistakes are hard to avoid, but Yoochun's successfully sidestepped them for so long—

 

The curtain opens.

 

"You need help," Jaejoong says as though Yoochun's not a sleepy naked mess in front of him.

 

"Yes," Yoochun says because it's true.

 

He needs help.

 

Just maybe not with his pants.

 

Jaejoong gives a small nod and sinks to his knees.

 

Yoochun freezes, breath catching somewhere in his lungs.

 

Painfully slow, Jaejoong touches his fingers to the leather, casually separating the briefs.

 

"Up," he says, voice slightly shaky.

 

Yoochun shifts his weight to his left hip and bends his right knee up.

 

Meticulously, Jaejoong slides one pantleg up Yoochun's calf, leather biting as it sticks to his skin.

 

"Up," Jaejoong repeats.

 

Yoochun palms the mirror behind him, willing his body to cooperate.

 

Jaejoong works the other pantleg up and meets Yoochun's eyes as he pushes above the knee.

 

Yoochun's body betrays him.

 

His cock twitches.

 

Mortified, he shoves both hands in front, tipping his head back in shame. "Sorry."

 

"...you really need to clear your schedule," is all Jaejoong says before he slips the pants up Yoochun's thighs, the slow dry drag igniting sparks along Yoochun's skin. There's rustling and the vague noise of Jaejoong rising and then he's breathing into Yoochun's ear, "Move your hands."

 

Yoochun does.

 

Expertly, Jaejoong yanks the pants over Yoochun's ass with surprising ease, then brings burning fingers to his front.

 

"No, I'll—" Yoochun starts, eyes shut tight, chin pointed at the ceiling, fingers desperately hovering over Jaejoong's.

 

A warm wet breath tickles his jaw and then Jaejoong's hands are on him, hot and forceful, tucking him in with care.

 

The zipper strains against Yoochun's throbbing cock.

 

"There," Jaejoong says, satisfied.

 

With a pained breath, Yoochun lowers his head back down and opens his eyes.

 

Jaejoong's smiling at him but it's a strange intense thing. "Say thank you."

 

"Thank you," Yoochun murmurs automatically, gaze slipping to Jaejoong's lips.

 

"You were the thirty-fourth person to text me on my birthday," Jaejoong says darkly.

 

Guilt twists through Yoochun.

 

Jaejoong cups him through the leather pants.

 

"Hyung," Yoochun starts, eyes widening, cock rubbing up against the metal zipper, leeching heat from Jaejoong's palm.

 

"Found you a shirt," Junsu announces somewhere behind them.

 

Expression unreadable, Jaejoong wraps his fingers around Yoochun's wrist and tugs him out of the booth.

 

Junsu halts his steps, face falling.

 

"...I knew it," he whines, tosses a plain white tee at Yoochun, then petulantly crosses his arms over his chest. "Was it squats. How many did you do. When can you stop."

 

Unsettled and thrumming with tension, pulse uneven and cock achy, Yoochun quietly brushes by him and stumbles into two noonas at the door.

 

"We talked it over with the photographer and decided we can change it to a shirtless concept," one suggests enthusiastically.

 

"NO, WE CAN'T," Junsu snaps in the background.

 

Everyone ignores him.

 

"Aren't we... partly advertising shirts..." Yoochun points out.

 

"Oh," the other noona says, nose scrunched up.

 

And then the stylist bustles in, unapologetically shoves Yoochun into a makeup chair, and stabs at his lids with eyeliner.

 

Yoochun winces at the burn and thinks about puppies and golf and not Jaejoong.

 

Not Jaejoong's pink mouth or the way his lips part.

 

Not Jaejoong's thick impeccable hair or its shaved sides or how they're the perfect invitation to just reach out and steady his jaw before burying himself in his mouth—

 

Yoochun crosses his legs, squirming.

 

He's going to clear his schedule.

 

He's going to eat and sleep and fuck someone.

 

Not Jaejoong.

 

He's not going to fuck Jaejoong.

 

The makeup sessions drags on and then hair styling happens and Yoochun spends all of it in a weird agonizing haze, unsure what to say to Jaejoong or whether an apology is even necessary.

 

And then he joins him and Junsu on set, and Jaejoong gets into formation, fitting perfectly under Yoochun's outstretched arm, and whispers, "You were the forty-second person to wish me happy new year."

 

So.

 

An apology is necessary.

 

Yoochun's practiced smile drops, fingers instinctively curling around Jaejoong's shoulder. "Sorry."

 

The flash goes off, they shift, the whir of the camera intensifies, the lights brighten.

 

And a hand slips to Yoochun's ass.

 

Jaejoong palms his left cheek with purpose, fingers firmly digging into the leather, hard enough to bruise.

 

Heat consumes Yoochun.

 

He focuses on the camera, mouth dry.

 

The fingers venture lower, one blunt fingernail dragging across the mid-seam.

 

Frantically, Yoochun yanks the hem of his tee down, hard and rough, covering his crotch with an anxious bite of his lips.

 

The photographer pauses, then shrugs.

 

Jaejoong turns his head, gaze fixed on Yoochun's exposed collarbone.

 

He slips a finger down the softened leather, rubs one insistent pad between Yoochun's cheeks, forces another one between.

 

Fuck.

 

Fuck fuck—ah.

 

A toxic kind of burn spreads down Yoochun's spine, coiling through knotted muscles and undoing the careful control Yoochun's cached over the years.

 

"Sorry," Jaejoong apologizes and removes his hand but then finds his way inside Yoochun's pants, curling his fingers into the—

 

Yoochun jerks away, throbbing.

 

"Let's set up for Junsu-ssi's single-shots," the photographer nods with uncanny timing.

 

A noona rushes at them to reapply Junsu's makeup and Jaejoong subtly withdraws his hand.

 

"What are you—" Yoochun mouths, praying his cock calms down.

 

Jaejoong smiles at him, mouth puckered attractively, eyes dark and amused.

 

Yoochun forgets things.

 

"You owe me a birthday present," Jaejoong mouths back.

 

Right.

 

That is true.

 

That makes sense.

 

And Yoochun's body is smarter than Yoochun.

 

This morning, when he went to pour himself coffee, his hands grabbed a soup bowl instead of a mug.

 

His body knows what he needs and how much of it so fuck it.

 

"What do you want," he offers out loud.

 

Jaejoong stops smiling.

 

Looks away.

 

A noona skips over to pat his forehead down and adjust his bangs and then he's glaring at Yoochun under them.

 

"Wardrobe change," another noona announces, a little too happily, and hands Yoochun a new shirt. "You can just change here since we're so behind schedule."

 

Several nesting noonas pause to watch inconspicuously.

 

Self-conscious, Yoochun bows at them a little, then awkwardly scoots until he's half-hidden by a fidgeting Junsu. He reaches back, grabs a handful of his tee, and effortlessly pulls it over his head, muscles stretching with the movement.

 

"I don't like this," Junsu grumbles as Yoochun slips into the new shirt. "Squats are bad for your asthma, okay."

 

Yoochun ghosts over to his mark, dazed.

 

Jaejoong joins him.

 

"What are you willing to give me," he asks quietly, striking a pose as the photographer motions for them to practice.

 

Yoochun waits until the attention is solely on Junsu before he shrugs.

 

"...come with me," Jaejoong says and Yoochun grows hard again.

 

"Hyung—"

 

"We'll finish changing and come back," Jaejoong announces, circles his fingers around Yoochun's wrist, and heads off.

 

"Your asthma..." Junsu reminds sadly, surrounded by fussing noonas, arms flopping at his sides with despair.

 

A random handler opens his mouth to protest then shrinks under Jaejoong's heated gaze.

 

Yoochun makes a mental note to send the entire staff extravagant presents, then lets Jaejoong navigate down a dark hallway and into the empty dressing room.

 

"The way I see it," Jaejoong says as the room fills with an infinite number of their reflections, "you can't work like this." He drops Yoochun's wrist, turns, and points at Yoochun's crotch, sounding sincere, "We want JYJ to always give 100%."

 

"Yeah," Yoochun agrees even though his brain can't process words anymore.

 

Jaejoong's features soften.

 

And then he's hungrily shoving his hands under Yoochun's shirt and scratching along his ribs, wordlessly lowering them to paw for the button and the zipper.

 

He takes Yoochun out without warning.

 

Yoochun groans.

 

His cock feels heavy and hard, balls still partially trapped by the leather and Yoochun's going to die.

 

"Hyung," he moans and hates himself for it.

 

Jaejoong backs him into the makeup counter, closes his fingers around Yoochun's base in a loose ringlike grip, and wraps his other hand around the head, spreading precome everywhere, a sticky strand clinging to his thumb.

 

"Fuck," Yoochun says, bracing himself against the counter.

 

He doesn't know where to look.

 

Wherever his eyes go, the view is too much.

 

Strained, he settles on leaning his chin on Jaejoong's shoulder and staring at the mirror directly behind; watches Jaejoong's muscles move, soaks in his skinny legs and pale nape and narrow waist, and almost comes.

 

"Want my mouth?" Jaejoong asks, and want punches through Yoochun so strongly it feels like an entire universe is trying to condense into his ribcage.

 

His cock pulses in Jaejoong's hands, hard and slick, Jaejoong's rings catch on a vein, an unbearable itchy heat lances through his navel, and—

 

"We should finish getting dressed," Jaejoong says and pushes off.

 

Panting, Yoochun blinks.

 

A rush of cold air sweeps down, blowing across the head of his hypersensitive cock.

 

Flushed and confused, Yoochun undresses on autopilot, grabs new pants with trembling fingers, and pulls his shirt down as far as it will go.

 

Unsteady, Jaejoong gestures at the exit.

 

Yoochun follows, shaking.

 

Someone dabs at his face while making exasperated comments about oil-blotting sheets being expensive and then he sits through a couple of poses, turns this way and that, trying to process things and fighting a persistent raging erection.

 

"Okay, group shot," the photographer commands and Yoochun stops breathing.

 

He channels every strong character he's ever played and sidles up to Jaejoong with calm he's nowhere near feeling.

 

Junsu leans over to stare suspiciously, then sorts himself back.

 

The flash pops, startling Yoochun.

 

He half-expects Jaejoong's hand to tuck itself into his back pocket—looser, lighter leather this time—but nothing happens.

 

By the time Yoochun's body outwardly cools down, still bent like a bow strung too tight on the inside, he's convinced himself hallucinating the whole thing is a totally plausible explanation.

 

"Gotta change again," Jaejoong says.

 

And drags Junsu away.

 

Yoochun shoots up, fists clenched.

 

He texted.

 

He texted Jaejoong a month ago.

 

Why is Jaejoong...

 

Head full of ugly angry things, Yoochun sets off after them, jaw clenched, teeth aching.

 

It's one thing to feel alienated by choice, but to be ignored by Jaejoong, to be replaced by Junsu—

 

He slams a palm against the dressing room door.

 

Jaejoong looks up with an innocent pout, thin shirt bunched up around his neck.

 

Junsu narrows his eyes, an entire length of the room apart, completely dressed.

 

"You don't have to break things," he chides, unimpressed. "You're not an _actual_ bodyguard, you know."

 

Yoochun focuses on the taut stretch of skin beneath Jaejoong's shirt.

 

"Junsu-yah," he says curtly, "hyung and me have to talk."

 

Junsu makes a face.

 

"...at least it's almost Sunday," he eulogizes to himself and evacuates.

 

"That was unnecessary," Jaejoong lectures, tossing his shirt off, tattoos stretching as he shifts, half-naked.

 

"I want to talk," Yoochun explains.

 

"No," Jaejoong shrugs, poking at the clothes splayed over a lounge chair. "You want to fuck."

 

Which isn't untrue, but.

 

"Yeah," he admits and crosses the room, somehow needing to touch his fingers to Jaejoong's belt.

 

"Do you even miss us," Jaejoong asks, frustrated, struggling with Yoochun's zipper.

 

Roughly, Yoochun palms Jaejoong's nape with one hand, drawing him closer.

 

"Yoochunnie," Jaejoong starts emotionally, eyes wet, "are we a shitty show on the TV that you can just shut off or mute or skip."

 

Yoochun's heart clenches.

 

So he yanks Jaejoong's belt out of its loops, chucks it at the chair with a sharp snap, and leans into him, fingers fumbling with the buttons.

 

Jaejoong's hard and Yoochun's not totally clueless so he angles his wrist and gently takes Jaejoong's cock out.

 

"Do you want..." he repeats Jaejoong's earlier words, mortified, hiding his face in Jaejoong's neck. "My... mouth."

 

Jaejoong pulses in his hand.

 

He thrusts his hips lightly with a tiny soft moan.

 

Okay.

 

There's approximately four steps to the chair, so—

 

"Are you in here~" someone shouts from the hallway and Yoochun instinctively covers Jaejoong's body with his, shielding him from sight.

 

"We're ready for you," one of the assistants says cheerfully, breezing past the dressing room, completely oblivious.

 

Yoochun relaxes.

 

"Okay, bodyguard-ssi," Jaejoong grins into his neck.

 

Yoochun wants to shove or push or sink inside him, or let him in, just _something_ , but all he can do is gingerly tuck Jaejoong back in, achy and anxious, and meet his eyes.

 

Jaejoong drapes his arms around Yoochun's neck, eyes hooded.

 

"Not just your mouth," he says and Yoochun almost comes.

 

"Yoochun-ssi, Jaejoong-ssi—" the assistant whines, poking her head into the room.

 

Haphazardly, they grab their outfits and shuffle out.

 

Between flashes, Yoochun hopes neither of them has suffered permanent damage.

 

By the end of the session, he's a botched high note, impatient and worn and ready to die.

 

He's sticky and hot and cranky when the crew finally empties out of the room, collecting props and clothing, and Junsu says, "They're insisting we keep the leather pants... strangely..."

 

He rounds in on himself, inspecting his ass in the mirror.

 

Then surreptitiously glances at Yoochun's.

 

"Nah," he concludes and grabs for his car keys.

 

"Wait for us at Boom's," Yoochun mumbles as he leans into the counter, squinting at himself in the mirror.

 

Junsu pauses. "...are we... hanging out."

 

"Yeah," Yoochun promises.

 

Junsu feigns indifference. "Okay, but I'm not paying."

 

"Yoochun's paying," Jaejoong offers, stepping closer.

 

Junsu waves them off, faux-aggravated. "Fine. Just. Seriously. I'm not paying."

 

And then everyone's gone and Jaejoong is somehow crowding Yoochun, pressing into his ass. "Turn around."

 

Instead of turning around, Yoochun reaches behind with one arm and buries his fingers in Jaejoong's hair.

 

He's probably two strokes away from coming so hard he worries about passing out, so he anchors the other hand against the cold surface of the counter and cants his ass back.

 

Jaejoong lets out a low moan. "Please turn around."

 

Embarrassed, Yoochun turns around, both hands slipping to the crease in Jaejoong's shirt.

 

"And look at me," Jaejoong says.

 

Yoochun covers Jaejoong's face with one hand.

 

Laughing, Jaejoong licks his palm. "Okay."

 

With a restless kind of urgency, he wastes no time blindly shoving Yoochun's pants down to his thighs.

 

Yoochun returns the favor, one-handed, clumsy, eager. The tension, the ache that's been stockpiling for a month melts away as Jaejoong wraps his fingers around both of their cocks, rubbing the tip of his along Yoochun's shaft.

 

Oversensitive, Yoochun jerks, knees and thighs weak. His hand slips off Jaejoong's face and then he's guiding it to slap Jaejoong's fingers away.

 

Jaejoong grins, letting him.

 

Frowning, Yoochun takes a good look—the familiar sight of his own cock next to the unfamiliarity of Jaejoong's, pressed against each other in Yoochun's grip, shirts bunched up above them.

 

He moves his hands.

 

"This doesn't count," Jaejoong breathes, encircling Yoochun's waist and dropping his hands to his ass. His fingertips brush across one cheek, almost setting Yoochun off.

 

"As your present?" Yoochun manages on an upstroke.

 

Jaejoong's grin widens, eyes closing in pleasure.

 

"What _will_ ," Yoochun asks stupidly, undone, and quickens his pace, hands sticky.

 

Jaejoong's rhythm skips erratically, hips rutting with need.

 

Helpless, he digs his nails into Yoochun's cheeks with a rough possessive squeeze, the tips of his fingers brushing low across Yoochun's ass.

 

Oh.

 

"Okay," Yoochun promises and Jaejoong shudders in his grip, thickens and burns, spasms heavily, and then he's spilling warm come through Yoochun's fingers, splattering across both their shirts.

 

A thick strand of it lands on Yoochun's cock, dribbling down his shaft and Yoochun watches it, uncomprehending, pleasure peaking and cresting and unfolding through him with a paralyzing kind of depth.

 

His mouth falls open in wonder.

 

Jaejoong covers it with his, still shaking, fingers prodding at Yoochun's ass.

 

Yoochun comes like he's forgotten how.

 

*

 

 

"You said I wouldn't have to pay," Junsu shrieks when the waitress hands him the bill.

 

Contemplatively, Yoochun tips his bottle back, licking at its neck. "You hear anything?"

 

Next to him in the booth, Jaejoong stares at the bottle and manages a happy, "Nope."


	18. jaechun

  * for [nanawood](http://tmblr.co/mv9ArqLNmHnJnEHFRDykk0A); heard you fuck through the wall [jaechun, with apologies to Kahi]



 

* * *

 

 

"Noona," Jaejoong greets warily, dropping his duffel.

 

She looks up from collecting her jacket and gives a startled little bow.

 

Jaejoong glances at his bed, perfectly made, then shifts his gaze over to Yoochun's.

 

A rumpled mess.

 

"...I was... just leaving," noona offers and starts for the door.

 

Jaejoong's high on endorphins, sweaty and sticky from his workout, so he shrugs and grabs a towel and tells her, "Stay."

 

*

 

He pushes into the bathroom, unsettled, buzzing with a hostile kind of energy.

 

Walks into a thing of steam and the familiar scent of his favorite shampoo.

 

Yoochun's standing by the sink, freshly showered, towel low on his hips, water beading across his shoulders.

 

He looks flushed, wet, sated.

 

He catches Jaejoong's gaze with a sort of soft sleepy smugness, pushes off of the sink with lazy grace, brushes by Jaejoong and out of the door.

 

Jaejoong's shoulder burns for an hour.

 

*

 

After practice, Jaejoong laughs into a dancer's mouth, cups her face, and drags her into the men's showers.

 

Makes sure to pause in front of the third stall from the right, pinning her hips to his.

 

Yoochun strolls out of the third stall from the right, running a towel through his hair.

 

Jaejoong glances at him out of the corner of his eye, mouth busy.

 

Yoochun's features harden.

 

He gives a vague acknowledgment, tosses a gesture of approval over his shoulder without care, and pads off.

 

Jaejoong loses interest.

 

*

 

"Leaving~" noona laughs as though it's a cute quirky habit between them by now, patting his shoulder on the way out.

 

Jaejoong tosses his bag at a tidy corner.

 

Yoochun pokes his head out of a blanket, eyes bright and playful. "You're early."

 

Jaejoong thinks he's late.

 

*

 

They're drinking and Yoochun's laughing hysterically at his own dumb joke.

 

So Jaejoong leans over and kisses some guy sitting to his right, just smacks his lips over an unfamiliar pair in a wet messy slide.

 

Yoochun's grin fades.

 

*

 

 

Jaejoong leans his forehead to the door.

 

It's a cheap door, not worth the plywood it's made of, not soundproof nor obstructive.

 

It's shit protection.

 

Beyond its hinges, there's fucking, sighs and growls echoing loud in Jaejoong's head, burning heat and ice into some dark awful place inside him, holding his soul hostage.

 

Yoochun grunts, the bed creaks, the headboard bangs into the wall.

 

Jaejoong stands there and listens.

 

*

 

"We're moving to Japan soon," Changmin reasons around his chopsticks.

 

Relief blossoms inside Jaejoong.

 

"You'll have to break up," Junsu nods, unconcerned.

 

Jaejoong sneaks extra meat onto Junsu's plate.

 

"Japan's only thirty minutes away," Yoochun argues nonchalantly, taking a sip of Jaejoong's water.

 

"Yoochun-ah," Yunho starts tactfully, tilting his bowl away from his lips with an awkward wince, "I understand you... care about this person, but we can't allow distractions—"

 

"Plus, it's weird," Junsu jumps in nasally. "She kinda looks like hyung."

 

"What," Yoochun laughs, making a face. "Who."

 

The table falls silent.

 

"Me," Jaejoong says after a beat.

 

Yoochun pales.

 

*

 

Their new room is smaller.

 

*

 

"If noona flies in on Saturday," Yoochun asks, yawning around his toothbrush, "can you... let me have the room."

 

No, Jaejoong thinks but says, "Sure."

 

*

 

Noona doesn't fly in on Saturday and Jaejoong soothes himself with a new phone, rewards himself with coffee, self-medicates by inviting a random guy up to the room.

 

He doesn't speak Korean and Jaejoong doesn't speak Japanese but it doesn't matter because his voice is deep and his shoulders are broad and so Jaejoong shoves him onto Yoochun's bed, straddles his hips, pauses above him.

 

This is new territory and Jaejoong's not sure he wants to go there but the reminders are stuck in his head, denting his mind with Yoochun's sharp cries and Yoochun's low growls and so Jaejoong has to fuck them away, has to force them out, has to forget.

 

He takes off his shirt and rolls his hips experimentally.

 

His pants are loose and thick and he doesn't feel anything.

 

The guy grips him by the waist and slams his hips down.

 

Jaejoong closes his eyes.

 

The door creaks open.

 

Head bowed, hands anchored on a stranger's chest, Jaejoong turns his face slightly to meet Yoochun's eyes.

 

Yoochun's knuckles are white around the doorknob.

 

 _Say it say it say it_ , Jaejoong projects because it's Yoochun and no one can read him like Yoochun can.

 

"Not here," Yoochun says with a low growl and the way his shoulders tense and his jaw clenches and his eyes narrow, all of it does something stupid to Jaejoong, tears down a few inhibitions, strips off a layer of reason.

 

He's suddenly hard.

 

"Why not, Yoochunnie," he asks calmly, ignoring the awkwardly squirming guy beneath him.

 

"This is _ours_ ," Yoochun says, voice thick and emotional.

 

An ugly frustrated sort of pain takes over Jaejoong's mouth. "You were going to bring _her_ here."

 

"A woman is fine!" Yoochun snaps furiously.

 

Jaejoong's shoulders sag.

 

Slowly, he folds himself away, lets the stranger sit up and escape.

 

With effort, Jaejoong rises off the bed, crosses the distance, reaches out a hand, shoves at Yoochun's chest, and slams the door in his face.

 

He leans against it, glancing at the ceiling, and asks, "Do you want a new roommate."

 

There's a soft thunk from the other side of the door, like maybe Yoochun's sitting against it and banging the back of his dumb head. "No."

 

"Then we need rules."

 

There's a moment of silence and then a muffled, "Yeah."

 

"I don't want," Jaejoong starts, sliding to the ground and burying his head into his knees, "to walk in on you fucking her."

 

Yoochun says nothing for a moment, then thumps his head against the door again. "I don't want you to fuck anyone in our room."

 

And because Yoochun thinks Jaejoong's got _fragile_ stamped across his chest, because Yoochun treats Jaejoong like a precious book, one he frequently opens but never finishes reading, Jaejoong says, "I don't want you to fuck anyone."

 

The thumping stops.

 

"You can't fuck anyone," Jaejoong repeats into his knees. "Else."

 

There's a long silence.

 

"I can't fuck _you_ ," Yoochun says finally.

 

Jaejoong lifts his head.

 

"I think I'd like it," he murmurs.

 

"...like what."

 

"You inside me."

 

The silence dissolves into white noise and Jaejoong thinks he needs to invent a new language, needs to construct an appropriate apology out of words not yet made.

 

But then the door opens, nudging him.

 

Flustered, he ducks out of the way and backs his ass into a pile of freshly laundered towels on the floor, soft and smelling like junipers.

 

When he looks up, Yoochun is towering above him, looking like a complicated thing.

 

"Please," Jaejoong tells him.

 

Yoochun sinks down, first to his knees, then his palms, trapping Jaejoong between his arms, pendant swaying off his dangling necklace and pointing at Jaejoong's mouth, centered like a compass needle.

 

He's not Jaejoong's to take, fine, but as Yoochun's mouth slides over his, Jaejoong thinks, yeah, these are the depths of his depravity, the measurable sin of his desires, the lengths he'd go to get what he wants and he wants this, wants Yoochun, so he opens his mouth under his, swipes his tongue, slick and wet, against Yoochun's upper lip.

 

He depletes a shared breath and wraps his legs around Yoochun, thrusting up.

 

Yoochun moans, and it's not a sound Jaejoong's ever heard, not through closed doors nor wet dreams, it's new and _his_ and so he bites Yoochun's bottom lip, exhaling harshly, and unbuckles both of their belts.

 

"Don't call me noona," he warns and drags Yoochun's jeans and boxers down, leaving fading white and pink marks along his skin.

 

"Should I call you oppa," Yoochun laughs desperately, eyes shut tight, chest lowering to Jaejoong's.

 

Squirming, Jaejoong kicks off his own jeans, spreads his legs, and lets Yoochun's hips sink between them.

 

The soft pile of towels beneath them shifts.

 

"Call me whatever you want," Jaejoong sighs into Yoochun's neck, tonguing his necklace.

 

"Mine," Yoochun murmurs and slips his hands low, peels Jaejoong's boxers down, rolls his hips, grinds his cock along the length of Jaejoong's.

 

Jaejoong shudders, words and sensations mixing, cut up into unholy little pieces.

 

"That works," he breathes, spoiled.

 

Rough, Yoochun presses a hand under the back of Jaejoong's left knee, spreading him wide open.

 

Jaejoong freezes as though he's accidentally swam too far out into the ocean with no hope of returning to shore, but Yoochun prods at him gently, carefully, running warm fingertips down his balls.

 

His other hand lets go of Jaejoong's knee and travels up to cup Jaejoong's face, fingers ghosting over his lips.

 

Jaejoong meets his eyes.

 

And sucks the fingers in, cock pulsing.

 

Yoochun's lips part.

 

"I'm going to die," he breathes, the pad of his thumb pressing hard in response. He takes his fingers away, slick with spit, angles Jaejoong's hips, and opens him up.

 

"Chun-ah," Jaejoong calls out with a startled gasp, back on fire, muscles tightening around Yoochun's knuckle.

 

It hurts and feels weird and invasive, but then Yoochun rolls him half to the side, bends his knee and hip out of the way and spoons him at an angle so stretched and so satisfying Jaejoong curls up and tries not to come.

 

"Hyung," Yoochun murmurs into his ear, adding a second finger. He thrusts his hips slowly, cock streaking precome across the small of Jaejoong's back.

 

Heart racing, Jaejoong burrows into a towel, biting his lips.

 

"Need something," Yoochun pants, frustrated, and shifts away.

 

Jaejoong's eyes fly open.

 

A warm wet tongue is suddenly lapping at him, easing the way, two fingers in, out, in, curling and scissoring inside.

 

Shattering, Jaejoong wraps shaky hands around his cock, so close, brutally close, and grips the base hard.

 

Not without Yoochun inside, he thinks, and Yoochun must somehow hear it because he moves his mouth, drags it up Jaejoong's ass and back, up to his shoulders and nape, and replaces his fingers with his cock.

 

Jaejoong makes a soft distressed noise, pain radiating up his spine.

 

It's a slow dry burn that drags against all of him, but it feels like being loved too well, being loved loudly.

 

"Gonna die," Yoochun repeats and Jaejoong lets out a little huff of laughter.

 

His muscles tighten as his chest vibrates, and Yoochun growls, pops the head of his cock fully in, and shoves in deep.

 

Jaejoong cries out, letting go of his cock and fisting his hands around a towel.

 

Yoochun pauses, buried to the hilt. He scrapes his teeth down the back of Jaejoong's shoulder and this is probably how Jaejoong's going to die.

 

He'll find his end in Yoochun.

 

Yoochun snaps his hips back, pulls out, slams back in, arms maneuvering around Jaejoong's sides, fingers wrapping around his cock.

 

The inside of Jaejoong's head is disjointed rambling white noise, painted with flashes of Yoochun's mouth and eyes and—

 

"Let me see," he says incoherently, grappling for purchase, "I wanna see, let me see—"

 

Yoochun gets it.

 

Carefully, he pulls out, rolls Jaejoong to his back with an affectionate wild stare, slants him over the towels, pins his hips, and sinks back in, eyes trained on Jaejoong's.

 

"She looked like me," Jaejoong smiles helplessly, sighs it between gasps, pain coiling around a thick burst of pleasure, realization dawning.

 

Pupils blown, Yoochun fucks into him.

 

"Yeah."

 

 

*

 

"So..." Yunho coughs awkwardly, stabbing at his breakfast, "...the walls here are really thin."

 

Miserable, Junsu leans on his palm, staring at a glass of milk. "I regret complaining about noona. This is worse."

 

Changmin shrugs, gaze fixed on the last piece of bacon. "Is anyone gonna eat that."

 

Under the table, Yoochun slips his leg over Jaejoong's, wedging it between his knees like an interlocking piece, and casually takes a sip of Jaejoong's water.

 

Jaejoong grins into his toast.


	19. jaechun

  * based on [these](http://boonies.tumblr.com/post/82119962363/jaejoong-since-there-are-a-lot-of-guys-here-too) tags [jaechun]



 

* * *

 

 

"We'll read about it in the paper," Jaejoong greets, dramatically catapulting himself atop Yoochun's couch.

 

"...do either of us read the papers..." Yoochun ponders, casually looks up from his phone, and recoils. "What's wrong with your hair."

 

Jaejoong huffs at his bangs.

 

They remain helmet-like, sharp and ugly above his browline.

 

"He's going to be eaten by cats," Jaejoong persists, spreading his palms to the ceiling as though hoping to forestall an impending kitty blitzkrieg.

 

"Junsu?" Yoochun mutters, half-done with the conversation.

 

"Yeah," Jaejoong breathes out, turning his head to stare at Yoochun with a fair amount of surprise. "How'd you guess."

 

Leaning into one palm, Yoochun shifts in his chair, and tells the table, deep in thought, "I always sort of pictured him going out that way. Death by cats just sounds... _right_."

 

Jaejoong sends him a warm smile, then grows serious. "We need to find him a girl."

 

"Or a cat," Yoochun suggests.

 

"Yoochunnie, no," Jaejoong reminds, infinitely patient, and sits up, "cats are why we're doing this."

 

Yoochun makes a face.

 

He kind of just wants to nap.

 

It's been a long winter but if Jaejoong's taking time to decamp his filming set, maybe Yoochun should put in a little bit of effort, as well.

 

Save some cats a tummy ache.

 

*

 

"I found the perfect one," he announces cheerfully, barging into Jaejoong's dark bedroom.

 

"What," Jaejoong mumbles, one eye refusing to open, arms wrapped around a huge gaudy pillow.

 

"Girl," Yoochun explains leniently, crouches by Jaejoong's head, and shoves his face right past any kind of acceptable personal space boundary. "Hyung, I found the perfect girl."

 

The room cools considerably.

 

"What," Jaejoong repeats with menace, both eyes open but narrowed to suspicious angry slits.

 

Yoochun breaks out in goosebumps, but soldiers on, adding, "She's young, pretty, totally into music," he trails off to mumble under his breath, "and I saw some cat hair on her sweater so I'm assuming she knows how to fight them—"

 

Slow and lethal like lava, Jaejoong sits up, mostly naked.

 

"Chun-ah," he says, eyes dark. "No."

 

Distracted, Yoochun watches the sheets pool by Jaejoong's hipbones. "What."

 

With a sleepy glower, Jaejoong cups Yoochun's jaw, tilts his face up, and orders, "You can't get married."

 

Yoochun's spine sort of falls apart.

 

"Before army," Jaejoong amends, folded awkwardly atop the mattress. He drops his hands and averts his eyes with a disgruntled pout. "You can get married when you're fifty, okay."

 

"Okay," Yoochun agrees because he's very reasonable, then points out, "but Junsu's gonna get eaten by cats."

 

"...oh," Jaejoong makes a soft noise. "Right. We were. Yeah. Okay, you meant... for him." Suddenly excited, he paws at Yoochun's chest, then lower, probably searching for Yoochun's phone. "Let me see."

 

Yoochun rises, joints cracking, then happily resettles next to Jaejoong on the bed, heads bent together over the screen, shoulders touching.

 

"Cute, right," he tells Jaejoong with pride, swiping left.

 

"Eh," Jaejoong shrugs noncommittally, then narrows his eyes with casual distrust. "How'd you meet her."

 

"She just showed up on set one day," Yoochun offers obliviously, lips twitching, "started calling me oppa and asking if she could get me anything."

 

Jaejoong's features harden. "...did she get you anything... "

 

"Coffee," Yoochun shrugs, zooming in on a posed picture of himself and the girl. "I thought about it last night and she'd definitely make the perfect—"

 

"No," Jaejoong says firmly, deleting the picture. "Not this one."

 

*

 

"She's perfect," Jaejoong smiles brightly, proffering his phone.

 

"She's pixelated," Yoochun argues, blinded by Jaejoong's smile but fighting a surprisingly unpleasant bout of heartburn suddenly corkscrewing through his chest.

 

Blinking, Jaejoong rotates his phone, tongue poking out in concentration. "No, that's just my screen. I spilled coffee this morning but I promise you she's beautiful."

 

"Hyung," Yoochun starts, voice thick with unexpected venom. "How old is she."

 

Jaejoong pauses.

 

"My age," he smiles adorably. "He needs to be with someone mature and classy."

 

Yoochun snatches the phone away with a deep unhappy scowl.

 

"She's the right height, too," Jaejoong urges persuasively, bending his left elbow and tapping the side of his hand to his shoulder. "Comes up to here," he gestures, and the phantom image of some girl fitting into the crook of Jaejoong's shoulder sends ugly awful pangs crawling up Yoochun's nape.

 

No.

 

That's Yoochun's spot.

 

Everyone knows that's Yoochun's spot.

 

"Hyung," he tries again, patience wearing thin.

 

"Yoochun-ah, just trust me, okay," Jaejoong interrupts, sounding frustrated, " _I'd_ marry her if—"

 

"No," Yoochun growls, surprising himself.

 

Startled, Jaejoong slowly reaches back for his phone, gaze piercing and trying to read Yoochun like an instruction manual, impatiently and all at once.

 

"You can't get married until you're fifty-five, okay," Yoochun insists, maybe a little too aggressively.

 

Jaejoong watches him delete the entire album, expression neutral.

 

"Okay."

 

*

 

"What," Yoohwan says, backtracking into Yoochun's room.

 

"We're gonna interview a couple of girls," Yoochun repeats, looting through the closet. After a contemplative beat, he cocks his head at a lamp. "Does that sound weird?

 

"...only to normal people," Yoohwan drawls, sips at his tea, and pads off.

 

*

 

"—I was sort of..." the girl tells him awkwardly, squirming in the booth, iced coffee untouched, "...thinking it was going to be just you and me, oppa..."

 

Perplexed, Yoochun raises both eyebrows.

 

Okay, maybe his phrasing was a little ambiguous, but.

 

"Nah, Yoochunnie's not getting married until he's sixty," Jaejoong dismisses her with the sweetest of tight-lipped smiles, pressed against Yoochun's side like an overgrown wild vine. "Our Junsu, on the other hand—"

 

"Wait, I'm sorry," the girl interrupts, sticking her fingers out to count. "Sixty in human years?"

 

Jaejoong's jaw clenches visibly.

 

"Our Junsu owns a considerable amount of—" he starts but the girl turns betrayed eyes to Yoochun.

 

"Oppa," she complains, crestfallen, "you can't make us wait thirty more years for—"

 

Dangerously calm, Jaejoong takes a long, calculated sip of Yoochun's coffee and drapes his other arm around Yoochun's shoulder, the heat of his hip burning through Yoochun's jeans, radiating a strange sort of ownership, and says,

 

"Thank you for your time."

 

*

 

Yoochun slams the door shut.

 

The hinges bend with an audible creak.

 

"Hyung, what did you tell this woman," he snarls, angry, flustered, shaky, unraveling beneath an inexplicable onslaught of anxiety, barely contained to his ribcage.

 

"...that I wanted to discuss marriage," Jaejoong offers innocently, standing in the hallway like he's campaigning for a halo.

 

"Yeah, and did you forget to mention _Junsu's name_ ," Yoochun demands furiously because the crazy lady tried to slip him a signed marriage certificate and this is the fourth candidate that's tried to claim Jaejoong and Jaejoong is fucking unclaimable, he's not on the market, he's off limits, he's not fucking _available_ , how the fuck can anyone think otherwise—

 

"I thought it was implied," Jaejoong apologizes adorably with his dumb hair and stupid eyes and Yoochun deflates instantly.

 

"Sixty-five," Yoochun points in warning at Jaejoong's chest, then leans against it, suddenly sleepy. "Not until you're sixty-five, hyung."

 

Jaejoong's breath warms his neck. "Yeah."

 

*

 

"No," Jaejoong insists, protesting into the phone. "What do you even like about her."

 

"I thought about it," Yoochun defends, hiding the phone from his manager as the van hits a pothole, "and you're right. He needs someone slightly older, like you—"

 

"No, that's gross," Jaejoong fusses angrily, "don't look for girls like me."

 

Yoochun's been looking at nothing else.

 

"He's gonna get eaten by cats," Yoochun eulogizes.

 

"No," Jaejoong says, calming down, "it's fine. I found one on set. She kinda reminds me of you—"

 

"No," Yoochun twitches, staring at a red light. "Don't talk to that one."

 

*

 

By Monday, there's a noticeable thinning of the herd.

 

Yoochun shows up on Jaejoong's set, quietly and in poorly-planned disguise, but the sea of staffers parts anyway, eyeing him with unease.

 

Jaejoong skips over during a brief break, ridiculous helmet puffing out his cheeks, and clasps Yoochun's shoulders with real panic.

 

"I can't get any of them to say yes anymore, Yoochunnie, what do we do, he's too young to die."

 

Awkwardly, Yoochun reaches out and pats Jaejoong's helmet.

 

*

 

Yoochun skips the niceties and sets out to investigate this sudden drought.

 

If he's learned anything from his dramas, it's how to cry and solve mysteries and so he sidles up to the first familiar face on set, tugs her away, and tells her, "I'm looking for a girl."

 

She gives him a wary but unsurprised look, and offers a reluctant, "Oppa, there's a rumor among the unnies."

 

"What," Yoochun asks, tilting his head.

 

"That you've been asking them out on dates," she starts, nose wrinkled, "and then showing up with a man and being really mean to them."

 

"What," Yoochun laughs but then remembers how that's actually completely true.

 

Oh.

 

Well.

 

Junsu's gonna get eaten by cats.

 

*

 

"Don't fuck this up," Yoochun warns, hurrying by Jaejoong's side.

 

Their hands brush with every frantic step, knuckles knocking softly, fingers tangling by accident.

 

"Same to you," Jaejoong snaps, vans squeaking against the polished floor.

 

They round a corner, ten minutes late, and try to claim the same chair, bumping heads.

 

"...yeah, I should go," their final viable candidate greets with concern.

 

"Wait," Yoochun pleads, shoving Jaejoong into a chair and scooting his own so close the metal fuses.

 

"Please let us explain," Jaejoong adds, nervously folding his hands in Yoochun's lap.

 

The girl pauses.

 

"Cats," Yoochun dives in and Jaejoong shoots him a quick glare. "We're concerned about a friend."

 

The girl seems to consider for a moment, eyes surreptitiously darting toward the nearest exit.

 

"Junsu-oppa," she nods. "I heard."

 

Yoochun exhales.

 

"In our line of work," Jaejoong starts diplomatically, regaining his breath, "it's hard to establish a real connection, so we're just trying to—"

 

"—make sure he's not taken advantage of," Yoochun finishes earnestly, calf rubbing against Jaejoong's shin.

 

Contemplative, the girl pauses to process.

 

Jaejoong smiles beautifully.

 

And instead of satisfaction and relief, Yoochun's vision fills with threat levels, rising rampantly, knotting his gut with dread.

 

"Shouldn't you get married first," the girl questions guardedly, leveling her eyes with Jaejoong's.

 

Yoochun pales at the thought.

 

He's panicking.

 

Why the hell is he panicking.

 

"Or at least Yoochun-oppa should," she corrects herself, fidgeting.

 

"He can't get married until he's seventy," Jaejoong says, smile fading.

 

"Really, wow, seventy," the girl falters. "That's..."

 

"The right age," Jaejoong nods, satisfied.

 

"...for a funeral..."

 

"What's important here," Yoochun steps in, palm instinctively curling around Jaejoong's fist, "is that you're interested in Junsu."

 

"Oh, I'm not really interested in marriage," the girl says apologetically, bringing a glass of water to her lips. "I drew the short stick," she mumbles as though trying to unlearn this fact. "The unnies sent me to see if the rumors are true."

 

"What rumors," Yoochun asks with concern, rubbing his thumb in soothing circles over Jaejoong's hand—

 

Eh.

 

"What's this," he asks, distressed, and hastily lifts Jaejoong's hand off his lap and to the light for a proper inspection.

 

Between Jaejoong's thumb and forefinger, there's a small raw scratch, pink along the edges.

 

Jaejoong gives him a dramatic look.

 

"I got hurt on set," he says bravely, shuffling ever closer.

 

Yoochun's shoulder aches but not as much as his heart.

 

"Hyung," he lectures, serious. He ghosts his fingertips over the scratch with dedicated gentleness. "I told you to be careful."

 

"Sorry," Jaejoong agrees, eyes downcast.

 

"Be more careful," Yoochun murmurs softly.

 

Their eyes meet.

 

Jaejoong's pupils dilate. "You, too."

 

"...yep," the girl nods.

 

*

 

"I'm really worried," Junsu complains enthusiastically, takes a dainty sip of his almond milk, and offers Wednesday a frustrated look. "It's not healthy."

 

Wednesday pokes at her dinner.

 

"Should I just take out an ad?" Junsu continues, undeterred. "Wednesday, they're going to be eighty years old and still single."

 

"...oppa, that's not my name."

 

"—they don't understand how self-destructive they are and if they don't settle down soon, I'm worried they'll be alone forever and that's not healthy and they're already not healthy."

 

"—oppa, seriously, you realize that's not my name, right—"

 

Junsu checks his internal calendar.

 

He's pretty sure it's Wednesday.

 

"What should I do."

 

"Maybe learn my name..."

 

Junsu pouts at his glass, stealthily checking his watch.

 

Maybe his Thursday girlfriend will be more understanding.


	20. jaechun

  * birthday drabble for [sandgirl-nicky](http://tmblr.co/mTtGhZQZBizg-UVTBzQVWRQ); we're gonna pretend [that's](http://boonies.tumblr.com/post/85826201496/i-think-its-the-wire-from-his-thing-or-something) a real tattoo [jaechun]



 

* * *

 

 

Junsu notices on a Sunday.

 

On his way to church, with his mother tucked safely next to him and his songs trickling from the speakers and god's eternal grace warming him through the rolled down window, his gaze just slips over the steering wheel and refocuses on the car's shiny hood.

 

It's barely noticeable, especially while going eighty kilometers an hour; it's just a tiny black dot, pinched between the windshield wipers.

 

It's not a big deal.

 

It's fine.

 

Four days later, there's a long black line curving around one headlight.

 

Heart vaulting against his ribcage, Junsu grabs the phone.

 

"You better stop."

 

Yoochun yawns, "I have no idea what you're talking about," and hangs up.

 

Next Sunday, an entire tribal pattern is fanning across his door handle, dipping down to his rims, so Junsu picks up his phone again and whines, "Okay, how do I get you to stop."

 

There's a long pause and then a soft, "I think you already know."

 

Annoyed, Junsu hangs up.

 

On Tuesday, he shuffles into his garage and flips the light switch and his aventador is a whole different color and that's just fucking wrong, so he runs shaky fingers over his phone and texts, _what do I need to do_.

 

There's nothing for six whole minutes and then:

 

_08:22 picking you up in twenty_

 

*

 

"I don't want to," he whines, face-down on the chair, shirt off, back exposed and vulnerable.

 

Slumped on the bench next to him, Yoochun just hums.

 

"It's gonna get infected and I will _die_ ," Junsu warns dramatically, snuffling at the leather.

 

Unconcerned, Yoochun scrolls down his phone.

 

"My parents are gonna—" Junsu starts, then freezes as the parlor lights brighten and a thick brochure lands by his cheek with a terrifying thump.

 

"Look through the designs," the tattooist says gruffly and turns on his death machine and Junsu's soul leaks out his ears.

 

Trembling, he tries to thumb through the pages but he's forgotten how to read.

 

There's a kanji for kitten somewhere in the center, he's pretty sure, and maybe that wouldn't be so—

 

Yoochun stands up.

 

Calmly, he proffers a piece of paper at the guy, and nods, "This is what he's getting."

 

 

*

 

_21:50 meet us at the izakaya in an hour_

 

Junsu scowls at his phone, then goes back to preening at the mirror.

 

His cars are safe and his passcodes are changed and no one's getting into his garage without a tank and, well.

 

His back doesn't hurt.

 

It still stings a little, yeah, feels tender and weird, but he can't see it and if he can't see it, it's not there.

 

And hey, maybe he feels a little manly and like, it's an army thing, right, army men get tats and so this is... for his own good.

 

...Yoochun's only looking out for him.

 

Curious, Junsu tries not to twist for a better view because if he sees it properly, he'll feel like branded cattle.

 

Cattle that belongs to a couple of idiots.

 

Forever.

 

Junsu's face feels warm.

 

*

 

He drags himself to the izakaya and parks his car four blocks away.

 

Just in case.

 

Excited, Yoochun lets him in, fingers automatically reaching for the hem of his t-shirt.

 

Junsu squirms and tries to bat his hands away but Yoochun's still in bodyguard mode and he looks well-rested and up for combat and Junsu's not gonna win this one.

 

"Looks healed," Yoochun beams and lets the shirt flutter back down.

 

"Never touch my cars again," Junsu threatens with narrowed eyes, then petulantly flings himself into a booth, determined to repress.

 

Jaejoong lumbers in seven minutes later, looking like crap, and tiredly collapses into the booth next to Yoochun.

 

"Hyung," Yoochun greets with tentative concern, "I got you something."

 

Jaejoong doesn't perk up, just slouches over the table, and pouts at an empty shot glass. "Is it a burial plot."

 

"Slightly better," Yoochun says and bends Junsu over in the booth.

 

Mortified, Junsu makes a face as his shirt disappears up his shoulder blades.

 

Instantly, Jaejoong sits up, eyes wide, pupils blown.

 

"...for me?" he breathes out with awe, eyes locking with Yoochun's.

 

Stupidly gentle, Yoochun shrugs and offers, "You sounded down."

 

Folded awkwardly, Junsu just stares.

 

...this is his precious body.

 

His precious unmarked sacred pure temple.

 

Ruined forever for _this_ shit.

 

Practically glowing, Jaejoong meets Junsu's eyes, hands already curling in Yoochun's lap.

 

"Junsu-yah, thank you," he says happily but his face is clearly saying _okay, you can go now_.

 

With a sigh, Junsu shakes Yoochun's hand off and stands up.

 

"Hyung, I got it because it was time," he points out defensively and randomly pockets the sauce packets lining the table, "so cheer up."

 

Jaejoong looks more than cheered up.

 

He looks... right.

 

Junsu hesitates at the rush of sudden affection, then grudgingly pats Yoochun's head and fights his way out of the booth.

 

*

 

On Sunday, Junsu gives a sleepy stretch, steps into his garage, turns the lights on, and chokes.

 

Every single one of his cars is pink.

 

Junho's leaning against the garage door, hands folded over his chest, face drawn up into an angry scowl.

 

He nods his chin at Junsu and demands,

 

"You're gonna add my name."


	21. mixed

  * birthday drabble for [koroshiyas](http://koroshiyas.tumblr.com/); after Yoochun moves into the dorms, Yunho and Jaejoong battle it out for his affections [jaechun, 2u]



* * *

 

 

 

*

 

Yoochun's used to weird.

 

But this is...

 

"I'm older," Jaejoong reasons, one incredulous palm turned toward the ceiling.

 

"And I'm the leader," Yunho points out impatiently.

 

"—I can just bunk with Junsu and Ch—"

 

Yunho holds out a hand.

 

"Yoochun-ah," he says with a tight-lipped smile, "we take accommodating our new members very seriously."

 

"I can accommodate—" Jaejoong starts innocently but Yunho shoves him out of the way.

 

"There are things we should go over first," he tells Yoochun with an air of confidentiality, draping a large hand over Yoochun's shoulder, "like personal preferences and habits—"

 

"Yunho's messy," Jaejoong interjects hastily, eyeing Yoochun's meticulously packed suitcases. "He left half a raw squid on the bathroom floor yesterday."

 

Oh.

 

Yeah, Yoochun can't do messy.

 

His face must show it because Yunho's falls spectacularly.

 

*

 

Rooming with Jaejoong is like living with a cat.

 

In heat.

 

"Wear this," Jaejoong says and throws a pair of well-worn jeans at Yoochun.

 

Obediently, Yoochun slips them on and shuffles out into the kitchen for a snack.

 

"I don't like those pants," Yunho greets, looking up from a plate, stationed at the counter. "They don't... match your concept."

 

"They're hyung's," Yoochun comments casually.

 

Yunho narrows his eyes. "Take them off."

 

An hour later, when Yoochun's watching cartoons, Yunho sidles up to the couch from behind and slaps a baseball cap atop Yoochun's head.

 

Yoochun pauses around a mouthful of popcorn, Yunho's cologne slowly seeping into his skin.

 

With a grin, he pops another kernel.

 

Yeah.

 

Yunho's definitely a puppy.

 

*

 

"Hyung," Changmin starts cautiously, circling, "no offense, but you look homeless."

 

Yoochun's wearing an assortment of items, none of them his, none of them matching.

 

Can't seem to mind.

 

*

 

"Long."

 

"Short."

 

"His hair should be _long_ ," Jaejoong insists desperately, appropriating Yoochun's swivel chair and absconding with it across the makeup room and away from all the scissors, hands buried in Yoochun's locks with a protective kind of anxiety.

 

Yunho squares his shoulders and straightens up, towers over a fussing stylist noona with an authoritative glower, and rules,

 

"It looks better short."

 

*

 

"Yoochunnie," Jaejoong says softly, easing himself onto the piano bench. "Teach me."

 

One foot on the pedal, Yoochun trails his fingers across the keys and murmurs, "Put your hand over mine."

 

Shivering, Jaejoong twines their fingers together.

 

*

 

During a long smoke break, Yunho's eyes light up, knee casually pressed to Yoochun's, and he says, eager and impossibly happy, _me too,_ and then he's dragging Yoochun to the nearest taekwondo dojang.

 

An hour later, sparred-out and buried under a pile of sweaty hyper leader, Yoochun says, "I don't think that was a legal move, hyung."

 

Yunho's lips curl against Yoochun's neck.

 

"Probably not."

 

*

 

"What's your favorite hobby," an interviewer asks.

 

"Eating," Yoochun laughs.

 

*

 

Jaejoong learns how to cook.

 

*

 

Yunho learns how to do the dishes.

 

*

 

"Really, hyung," Yoochun smiles and drops to his knees by the shoe rack. "Why are you still so bad at this."

 

"...knots are hard," Yunho manages adorably, eyes firmly fixed on the ceiling, hands awkwardly clenched by his zipper, teeth slowly dragging across his bottom lip.

 

Amused, Yoochun does his best to tie Yunho's laces.

 

Mainly because if Yunho never properly learns how, he'll always need Yoochun to do it.

 

 

*

 

"There's this... ~tension between you," a producer praises, spreading his arms wide, eyes sparkling, mouth slack, "and fans are _definitely_ picking up on it."

 

Confused, Jaejoong blinks, lips pursed.

 

Yunho offers a stoic, calculated look.

 

"We'll call it—" the producer nods to himself, sweat beading by his temples, "yunjae."

 

Yoochun waits until he's out in the hallway before he cracks up hysterically.

 

*

 

"Yoochunnie," Jaejoong complains, stomping into the room and marching right up to Yoochun's bed, "did you really ask Yunho to tutor you privately after dance practice?"

 

Yoochun looks up from his book.

 

"I need all the help I can get," he offers reasonably, loose t-shirt sliding off one shoulder, revealing his collarbone.

 

Jaejoong watches the shirt slip down.

 

There's a long silence and then he says, "...what."

 

"You were angry about something..." Yoochun reminds patiently.

 

"Was I," Jaejoong asks with an absentminded lick of his lips then shrugs it off and climbs in next to Yoochun, nestles into the crook of his bare shoulder, and sighs, content, "What are we reading."

 

Pleased, Yoochun leans his cheek to the top of Jaejoong's head. "Whatever you want."

 

*

 

"It hurts," Yunho says and Yunho doesn't ever say that.

 

So Yoochun edges closer, climbs onto the massage table in the masseur's absence, kneads into Yunho's knotted back, and promises, "I'll fix it."

 

*

 

"Since Yoochunnie is somehow strangely manly," Yunho admits during an interview—with some reluctance—palm naturally cupping Yoochun's knee, "I feel like I would be the woman in our relationship."

 

Standing off to the side, Jaejoong makes a face.

 

*

 

 

"I wouldn't be the girl," Jaejoong says conversationally, leaning against the stove, apron tight around his waist, wooden spoon canted at Yoochun's lips, tteokbokki steaming off it.

 

Yoochun wraps his mouth around the spoon.

 

"I know."

 

*

 

"Why do they always cover it up," Yunho mumbles, inspecting himself in the mirror. He turns to watch Yoochun. "Yours, too."

 

Fixated on the mirror, Yoochun glances at the spot above his lip, then at Yunho's, where the twin beauty marks they share should be but both are caked in makeup and completely gone.

 

"I don't know, hyung," he drawls. "I guess it's unattractive."

 

Yunho pauses for a moment, sucks a thumb into his mouth, then presses it to Yoochun's face and rubs at the makeup, brows drawn, eyes dark.

 

"It's not."

 

*

 

Yunho is out after four shots but Jaejoong is a sponge.

 

Sprawled across the couch, Yoochun drops his head to Jaejoong's lap.

 

"I'm better at this," Jaejoong slurs and pats Yoochun's cheek, bangs matted to his eyes.

 

"Drinking?" Yoochun yawns, sleepy.

 

Jaejoong pauses, fingers stilling.

 

"No."

 

*

 

Yunho loses things easily—car keys, passports, shoelaces.

 

If Yoochun notices how he frantically looks around at the airport, relaxing only when his eyes meet Yoochun's, it's probably just wishful thinking.

 

*

 

"That's mine," Jaejoong cautions.

 

Annoyed, Changmin sighs and drops the shirt.

 

On his way out, his shoulder bumps Yoochun's.

 

Jaejoong takes a step closer to dust Yoochun off.

 

"Also mine."

 

*

 

Yunho takes him hostage at two in the morning so they can set off stolen fireworks behind the studio.

 

As the first round detonates, unexpectedly deafening, brightening the sky and shaking the ground beneath their feet, Yunho startles and instinctively drapes himself across Yoochun's back, murmuring, "Shit."

 

Equally spooked, Yoochun reaches back and cards shaky fingers through Yunho's hair.

 

"Hyung," he accuses, "this was your idea."

 

"Yeah, but I'm full of bad ideas," Yunho whines then tightens his grip.

 

Yoochun doesn't hear the second round go off.

 

*

 

On a snowy cold evening, on his way back from the studio, alone and sleepy and bundled up, Yoochun takes a wrong turn and walks into a wall of fans.

 

For a moment, he's hopeful he's gone unnoticed, but then a small herd at the back turns their heads as one and shrieks.

 

"Yunjae president~" a girls screams, mittens shaking, face pink.

 

Yoochun tugs Yunho's baseball cap down, adjusts the scarf he stole from Jaejoong, and hides a shit-eating grin.


	22. jaechun

  * birthday drabble for [jaechunn](jaechunn.tumblr.com) [jaechun]



 

 

* * *

 

 

So.

 

Things almost happened.

 

On stage.

 

Things can't almost happen on stage.

 

And technically, yes, fine, it's been forever, and Junsu _understands_ because Junsu is a reasonable person, and sure, touring as three again is kind of like keeping a starving tiger in the basement for two years and then suddenly unleashing it upon a mass of eager meat-things.

 

He totally gets it, okay.

 

But Junsu's mother will be in the audience for the next concert and Junsu's not in the mood to listen to a dinner list of her very valid complaints, punctuated by Junho's soft, pleased, " _My_ friends would never."

 

Junsu's friends would.

 

And definitely will, if he doesn't take drastic measures to—

 

"I want," Jaejoong sighs dramatically, shitfaced and slumped in the back seat, "so much of you."

 

There's a sharp rustle of clothing and then Yoochun slurs, "How much of me."

 

"As much as," Jaejoong starts drunkenly, stops, seems to think on it, apparently grows very greedy. "All of you."

 

"I'm still in the car," Junsu reminds them, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel with an agitated huff. "We're all in the car. Together. All of us. Men. Together."

 

In the rearview mirror, Yoochun only faceplants into Jaejoong's lap, bracketing his hips like a seat belt.

 

"You need to know, hyung," he whines into Jaejoong's belly, with the kind of emotional effort required to convince the universe to stop dismantling itself, "you're it for me. No one else."

 

"Say that sober," Jaejoong murmurs and cards his fingers through Yoochun's frizzy hair.

 

Frowning, Junsu contemplates his GPS.

 

Yeah, he may have overestimated their alcohol tolerance so now his options are limited to driving them to their dumb secret hideout or the emergency room.

 

"Sharp left at the next exit," his GPS says so that settles that.

 

As he careens over a pike, the two idiots in the back slide across the leather in tandem, tangled and barely awake, and Junsu's pretty sure this is karma for ganking that new kid last week, for thoroughly decimating his own nexus out of spite and ditching the tribunal, for... maybe accidentally hulking out when some asshole with no map awareness pushed his lane early and fucked up his wards.

 

...Junsu maybe needs to uninstall the game but, well, one step at a time.

 

"Junsu-yah," Yoochun mumbles, in a way that suggests he's entirely too comfortable just napping in Jaejoong's lap but is probably going to projectile vomit soon, "where we going."

 

"Do you care," Junsu can't help but ask, adjusting the mirror to meet Yoochun's glassy eyes.

 

Yoochun flops back down, snuffling into Jaejoong's belt buckle. "No."

 

Annoyed, Junsu tries not to smile because this is horrible and wrong and he's enabling them and his parents taught him not to acknowledge or encourage shameful compulsions.

 

But it's not like his hyungs will remember this.

 

They'll just be very drunk and very alone and so naturally, they'll... diffuse this messed up accumulated tension in totally platonic ways, just recharge each other like they used to when they were roommates; they'll just... take their fill and get sick of each other and Jaejoong's not going to gravitate toward Yoochun's mouth on stage and Yoochun won't forget the lyrics and stare at Jaejoong like Jaejoong is true north on his internal compass—

 

"Let's sit here until it grows back," Jaejoong sighs softly, sounding not awake, fingers knotting deeper in Yoochun's hair.

 

...maybe Junsu should confiscate their phones.

 

But knowing Jaejoong, he'd fashion one out of a piece of paper and a light bulb and still record whatever he were intent on filming.

 

"Yoochunnie," Junsu tries, focusing on the blurred, welcoming lights of the lodge up ahead.

 

Yoochun raises his head a little, looking completely out of it.

 

Junsu eases off the gas. "You won't do anything stupid, right."

 

Yoochun squints, flushed face barely visible as the moon tucks itself beneath a thing of clouds. "Me or hyung."

 

Junsu's not sure there's a difference.

 

 

* * *

 

 

There's an entire grove of decomposing woodland creatures partying in Yoochun's mouth.

 

Nauseated, he fights his way out of the sheets and tumbles, ass-first, to the floor.

 

Head pounding, eyes burning, he hugs the side of the mattress, trying to gather his bearings.

 

He's pretty sure he went drinking with Jaejoong and Junsu, which, admittedly, in retrospect—was a little suspicious considering Junsu doesn't drink—

 

Unnerved, Yoochun narrows his eyes at the bed—dark—and the room—even darker—and worries Junsu's shoved him at some random fangirl or dancer or coordi.

 

But snuggled into the pillows in a strangely familiar room atop strangely familiar covers, there's only Jaejoong, looking like a mess.

 

Yoochun's headache dims.

 

Amused, he pushes up and staggers into the bathroom—familiar—flips the light switch, and ignores the wrecked demon mirrored in his reflection.

 

There's a plastic cup and a dual-tab of medicine by the sink so Yoochun peels one half and swallows it down, then fills the cup again and shuffles back to the bedroom.

 

With a wince, he places both atop the dresser on Jaejoong's side of the bed, then climbs back in, leaving a proper amount of space between their bodies, pretends this is still fine at their age and ignores the thudding of his heart, beating out a gratified _together together together_.

 

When he wakes up again, his temperature is approximately 100°C so he's basically on fire and there's really only one person who's the actual human embodiment of a volcano.

 

"Off," he grunts, wrapping his fingers around the scorching weight on his chest.

 

Jaejoong slips his knee between Yoochun's, pressing closer. "Where the hell are we."

 

Yoochun pauses.

 

Where the hell _are_ they.

 

"Phone," Jaejoong instructs so Yoochun paws at the sheets tangled by their hips and grabs the nearest thing.

 

The screen brightens.

 

Yoochun grimaces.

 

Unsteady, Jaejoong slaps an uncoordinated hand to one of the icons, pulling up an interactive map.

 

"Oh," he says, almost happily, breath warming the curve of Yoochun's shoulder.

 

"Wasn't me," Yoochun protests, anxiety paving a path through his gut.

 

"Oh."

 

Ungracefully, Jaejoong rolls off and sits up, scratching at his hair, illuminated only by the phone.

 

"Did we piss him off," Yoochun asks, drops one foot to the floor, squirms out of the sheets, and stands up, wobbly.

 

The room is hot and humid but somehow, Yoochun can breathe better.

 

"Probably," Jaejoong nods.

 

The phone dims, plunging the room back into darkness.

 

And since Jaejoong never lies to Yoochun, Yoochun knows not to ask dumb shit like _did you try to kiss me in front of ten thousand people last night_. Instead, he muddles toward a chair, bangs his knee twice, and gropes for a lamp.

 

When he turns to look back, Jaejoong's leaning on one knee, eyeliner smudged, hair slicked up and pointing northwest and southeast at the same time, frown line between his eyebrows disconcertingly deep, and Yoochun hesitates, tries not to revert to that dumb kid who'd launch himself at the bed and poke and prod and annoy until Jaejoong's face radiated nothing but _we're okay_.

 

It was cute then.

 

It'd be fucking weird now.

 

"They have an arcade," he says and it sounds like an apology.

 

Jaejoong looks up, features soft. "I remember."

 

*

 

Kicking the coin machine at 4:00 AM loosens some of the knots in Yoochun's chest.

 

"He didn't leave us any money," Jaejoong growls, stuck between hungover-cranky and insufficiently-drunk.

 

"At least he didn't dump us at the border," Yoochun points out.

 

Jaejoong laughs, a little helplessly, and claims a chair.

 

The machines are old but feel and look and smell familiar.

 

They smell like home.

 

"I'll be player two," Yoochun offers and Jaejoong hums appreciatively.

 

Three lives later, Jaejoong ducks his head, eyelashes dipping, yanks on his controller, and says, "I'm sorry."

 

Yoochun pauses at the risk of his last remaining life.

 

There's nervous energy chasing through him, tugging at his ends like electricity, making him sick and it's weird and wrong and they only have a day and a half until next rehearsal and Yoochun's suddenly terrified. The adrenaline of performing, the shine of the spotlight, the carelessness of his stage persona—the nearness and immediacy of Junsu and Jaejoong—they all push at his core and he's missed it more than he thought possible.

 

Yesterday was so overwhelming he forgot where he was, who he was, what he was.

 

Even now, he doesn't have a word for what happened.

 

Or a word for what Jaejoong is to him.

 

The thought's accompanied by a tilt of panic, so Yoochun sinks deeper into the chair and says, "I'm hungry."

 

*

 

 

"Miss your cooking," he mumbles absentmindedly, chewing on some no-name granola bar they scavenged out of an unplugged, defiled vending machine as though the apocalypse ran through the corridor an hour earlier.

 

Jaejoong shoves him hard.

 

*

 

5:00 AM is chilly, even in summer.

 

It's the only reason they're under a blanket together, squinting at the rising sun under some grotesquely overgrown tree, pretending they're not allergic to the great outdoors.

 

"Wanna drive west," Jaejoong grins, patting Yoochun's knee over the blanket.

 

Yoochun kicks him.

 

*

 

By 8:00 AM, they're creeping outside of the kitchen, hoping the owner ahjumma's up.

 

"You ask," Yoochun whines, hands planted on Jaejoong's hipbones.

 

Jaejoong pushes him forward in retaliation. "I don't have to eat, you ask."

 

Yoochun pauses, frowning. "You have to eat."

 

"Welcome back," ahjumma greets with a sleepy wave of her spatula.

 

Yoochun files in politely, palm pressed to the small of Jaejoong's bowed back.

 

*

 

By noon, Jaejoong's nervous energy finally dulls.

 

Probably because he's asleep.

 

Yoochun tries to stay up, tries to nap on the chair, tries to ease the ache in his chest, but Jaejoong's sprawled across the bed, breathing softly, arms outstretched like something's pinning his wrists above his head, like they used to when Yoochun could watch every night, and something in him clicks into place.

 

It's not a matter of _if_ he'll fuck up but _when_.

 

So he sheds his shirt and slips into bed and those outstretched arms lower and cage Yoochun in like something's maybe sewing them together.

 

*

 

"How many fucking pokémon have they added," Jaejoong grumbles, head pillowed by Yoochun's chest.

 

"Are these even pokémon," Yoochun agrees, offended, Jaejoong's phone clutched in his hand, angled so they can both watch the video.

 

Nose scrunched up in distaste, Jaejoong sighs, "We're old."

 

He doesn't move for the next nine episodes regardless.

 

*

 

"We're not settling this with _math_ ," Yoochun appeals, horrified.

 

"I remember how quickly the hot water runs out here," Jaejoong argues, voice rough, "and I'm not showering after you."

 

"You take longer showers," Yoochun points out incredulously and wow, he totally doesn't miss living with Jaejoong, " _and_ you're like lava anyway, you don't need hot sho—"

 

"Fine," Jaejoong decides petulantly, "neither of us gets to use the shower."

 

 _Or we use it together_ , Yoochun almost says, then rabbits away from the thought and makes a break for the bathroom.

 

Jaejoong tackles him four steps in.

 

*

 

"So, is he gonna pick us up or..." Jaejoong wonders innocently, practically eclipsed by the massive halo shining behind him.

 

Yoochun fans himself with an outdated brochure.

 

It's fucking humid again and he vaguely remembers a sauna and a pool but there are so many people around and this can't end up on naver or daum or anywhere, really.

 

Thirty-year-old men don't take mini-vacations together.

 

"Well, unless he plans to sing our parts at the concert, he has to—" Yoochun starts with pretend confidence then trails off, eyes locking with Jaejoong's.

 

"Shit," Jaejoong grins.

 

*

 

"Too spicy," Jaejoong criticizes, legs crossed atop the bedding, and cants his chopsticks at Yoochun's plate. "Take it."

 

Next to him, Yoochun plucks the pepper off and returns it to Jaejoong's plate. "Nice try."

 

"My tolerance isn't what it used to be, Yoochunnie," Jaejoong explains with a pout. "I'm old now."

 

"Are you fishing for compliments," Yoochun grins, popping the pepper into his mouth and regretting it instantly.

 

"No," Jaejoong says but he clearly means yes please, and _you're perfect_ almost slips past Yoochun's lips.

 

The old-fashioned clock on their dresser turns over.

 

One less hour left.

 

So Yoochun stuffs a prawn into Jaejoong's mouth and makes a dumb face and says, "Yeah, you're pretty old now."

 

*

 

Last time they were here, there was snow.

 

Now there's a thing of jagged moss-covered rocks behind their room with a great view at the end of the sloped precipice and so Jaejoong sparkles up at Yoochun, bent at the windowsill, and says, "Wanna climb it."

 

They only hold hands because Jaejoong can trip on air.

 

*

 

"Don't post that."

 

Caught, Jaejoong averts his eyes guiltily and lowers the phone.

 

Yoochun can feel the tension thicken so he bites back a fond affectionate dumb smile and shrugs, "You can take pictures." His ribcage rattles with a profoundly territorial jolt. "Just don't share them."

 

Jaejoong's eyes darken.

 

"Okay."

 

*

 

They've played every card game either one can reasonably cheat at and Jaejoong's leaning into Yoochun's shoulder and that's probably not how card games are played, but the thing between them, starved by distance, twisted by absence, is slowly simmering down.

 

It's warm now, appropriate.

 

Just brotherly.

 

*

 

Jaejoong showers first because Yoochun can't say no to Jaejoong.

 

Which is probably why Jaejoong never asks Yoochun for anything.

 

Out of habit, Yoochun rolls his eyes when Jaejoong steps out of the bathroom, flushed pink and wet, a satisfied smile curling his lips, and Yoochun suddenly wants to be asked.

 

But Jaejoong hurls a damp towel at Yoochun's head and laughs, "Your turn."

 

*

 

The shower runs cold five minutes in.

 

Yoochun curses, blinded by the shampoo, scrubbing faster.

 

He doesn't miss this, _wouldn't_ miss it—his house has normal plumbing, Jaejoong's apartment probably has normal plumbing, it would be fine.

 

But that's a fucked up train of thought so Yoochun relaxes into the spray, cooling down.

 

Something's stirring from its suppressed depths, slick with want and _how it used to be_ s because now their scents match again and Yoochun's not ready.

 

*

 

"He could've at least left us some clothes," Jaejoong accuses, arms crossed over his naked chest, tiny towel still wrapped around the sharp cut of his hips.

 

"There's a gift shop," Yoochun points out but Jaejoong's already grabbing Yoochun's discarded shirt.

 

A swap works just as well.

 

*

 

They're busy sneaking past a group of tourists at sundown, playfully clawing at each other at every obstacle, trying to blend into the shadows and not look like lost preschoolers, muffled laughter and sweat-matted hair and a total disrespect for propriety, when Yoochun's phone rings.

 

His grin fades before he's even sliding the screen to answer.

 

"Where are you," his manager asks, confused.

 

 

*

 

"If you were stranded," his manager demands incredulously, car engine rumbling, "why didn't you _call_ _one of us to pick you up_??"

 

 

* * *

 

 

In the makeup room, Jaejoong slips the mesh shirt over his head, stretching it at the neck, the thrum of speakers drowning out concert preparations.

 

Junsu's staring at his chest, probably inspecting him for marks.

 

It's partly why Jaejoong really loves Junsu.

 

Junsu's way too optimistic.

 

"So..." Junsu starts, circling.

 

"Junsu-yah," Jaejoong assures him, "I didn't eat him."

 

Junsu flushes.

 

"But I was thinking," Jaejoong continues, eyeing the entrance for staffers or Yoochunnie, "we could do some role-playing today."

 

Junsu recoils.

 

"Maybe Yoochunnie can play Little Red Riding Hood," Jaejoong smiles. "You can be the hunter," he adds casually. "And I'll be the wolf."

 

Horrified, Junsu pales, realization dawning. "Hyung, no."

 

Jaejoong grins indulgently, patting Junsu's head.

 

"Next time," he threatens, "send us to Bali."


	23. jaechun

  * birthday drabble for [dreamsaboutsky](http://dreamsaboutsky.tumblr.com/); loser vampires [jaechun]



 

* * *

 

 

 

"Have a seat," the receptionist drones without sympathy, baring her fangs in that _this is your fourth visit this month_ way.

 

Sulking, Jaejoong shuffles back to the waiting area, medical forms sliding off the clipboard.

 

"Maybe stop cooking with garlic," Junsu yawns and flips through a magazine, draped over one of the chairs with an air of detached resentment.

 

Face swollen, skin itchy, Jaejoong plops down next to him and bends over the forms, pen in hand, whining, "I like garlic."

 

There's only one more vampire in the room, tucked away in the corner under a plastic palm tree hiding an ugly balding head, and even he's silently judging Jaejoong.

 

So Jaejoong checks off _allergy_ and _O_ under preferred blood type and pouts at the sheet.

 

And then a human walks in.

 

His shirt's ripped open across one shoulder, collarbone jutting out, a shallow cut on his bicep beaded with blood.

 

He smells like naps.

 

"I think I need to see a doctor," he announces to no one in particular, makes an unsteady beeline for the receptionist, and leans on the counter.

 

Nostrils flaring, the receptionist licks her lips, slams the divider closed with a tiny involuntary hiss, then disappears from sight.

 

After a confused beat, the human slowly looks around, one hand clamped over his cut, messy bangs flopping over his eyes. "Are they... closed."

 

Unnerved, Junsu squirms.

 

"Junsu," Jaejoong manages under his breath, suddenly ravenous, "mine."

 

Cluelessly, the human straggles over, throws a compassionate, "Shellfish allergy?" at Jaejoong's bloated face then grabs a seat nearby, eyeing the forms in Jaejoong's lap. "...so this is kind of a weird hospital..."

 

The corner vampire slinks four rows closer, panting.

 

"There's a huma—another emergency room two streets over," Junsu suggests, strained.

 

The padlocked entryway opens with a heavy noise and a doctor stumbles out, lab coat rumpled, glasses askew, fangs retracted. "Human."

 

Frowning, the human glances up.

 

One of the nurses and the receptionist are flanking the doctor on each side, three pairs of eyes glinting with admirable restraint, knuckles white around their lanyards.

 

"Yoochun..." the human introduces himself, rising swiftly.

 

A trickle of blood trails down his arm.

 

Jaejoong moans.

 

"There's a—a," the doctor starts, tongue darting out. "You're. You're fine. Please go home and take... human... regular..." a string of saliva drops from her mouth, "...much medicine in the morning."

 

Incredulous, Yoochun lifts his fingers off the cut, blood pooling in the lines of his palm. "Don't I need stitches—?"

 

The old balding vampire slithers behind him, scenting Yoochun's neck.

 

Unkindly, Jaejoong shoves the grandpa away, practically knocking a row of seats over in his haste to stand up, and locks a shaky hand around Yoochun's uninjured shoulder. He smiles disarmingly and volunteers a civil, "I can take him home."

 

"NO," Junsu snaps because Junsu is an asshole.

 

Growing suspicious, Yoochun brings his hand back up, curls it protectively around the cut, and brushes Jaejoong off.

 

"It's fine," he growls, exasperated, and Jaejoong's fangs ache, "if you're closed, just say you're closed."

 

"We're closed," the nurse blurts, chest heaving. "Very closed."

 

"Closed forever," the receptionist adds, struggling against the doctor's outstretched arm blocking any involuntary advancement.

 

Visibly offended, Yoochun still gives a polite little bow and briefly meets Jaejoong's eyes in a _good luck, bro_ kind of way and then he's lumbering toward the exit, one pale shoulder blade exposed and Jaejoong's instantly narrowing his eyes at Junsu and explaining, "I need that."

 

"No, you don't," Junsu argues fiercely, clawing at Jaejoong's arm and trying to haul him back. "It's illegal."

 

"It's very illegal," the doctor affirms, coherency returning.

 

"He's type O," Jaejoong pleads because he's type O, too, and it's not narcissistic to appreciate something like this. "That makes it legal."

 

"No, it doesn't," the nurse points out reasonably.

 

Jaejoong ignores her.

 

"Need it," Jaejoong says, wrenches away, and pushes through, and he doesn't typically use his super speed because it makes him sleepy, but Yoochun's oddly fast for a human and so Jaejoong hurries down the dark street, blurring past lampposts and parked cars.

 

It's not stalking.

 

Jaejoong doesn't stalk.

 

He's a vampire, not a dumb dirty animal.

 

But Yoochun's scowling as he walks, several steps ahead, and he smells like a fancy buffet, and moves like he needs to be held down, and something primal and ugly whites out the inside of Jaejoong's head.

 

"Human," he rasps out, finally overtaking him under a stop sign.

 

Yoochun startles, lips parting, dried blood flaking off his shoulder. "Is that... some new slang I don't understand?"

 

" _Yoochun_ ," Jaejoong corrects.

 

The name throbs in time with the pulsing in Jaejoong's fangs.

 

Yoochun's features soften.

 

"So, look, I don't think that hospital's gonna help you out," he offers gently, inspecting Jaejoong's face and Jaejoong's completely forgotten he looks like shit because the itch is now a solid endless burn that has nothing to do with allergic reactions and everything to do with Yoochun's nose being scrunched up with concern and his tone being warm and his lashes dipping down attractively, "so if you need something from the pharmacy—"

 

"Just this," Jaejoong says and presses his mouth to Yoochun's throat.

 

Yoochun starts, pulse spiking wildly beneath Jaejoong's lips. "Wait, what," he objects breathlessly, "no, hey, I'm not into guys—"

 

Biting humans is kind of very illegal but Jaejoong sinks his fangs in anyway.

 

Just lets them deliberately slice through, drinking deeply, helplessly, mouth working at the soft skin, palms closing around Yoochun's hipbones.

 

He means to stop and fix things but Yoochun tastes weird.

 

He tastes like everything else is now ruined.

 

Which is why, when Junsu catches up to them a minute or a lifetime later, furious and terrified at once, Jaejoong only pauses to retract his fangs, lick at the puncture marks, and offer an insincere, "Oops."

 

*

 

 

Jaejoong should stop pacing.

 

It's unbecoming.

 

But the anti-venom has finally done its job and Jaejoong's face is back to normal and he looks like himself again—unspeakably beautiful—and so he paces in front of the door, eager to properly show himself to Yoochun.

 

Confident, he steels himself for the impeding awe and glides into his bedroom with regal grace.

 

Yoochun looks up from the floor, back tense against a windowsill, sheer white curtain playing about his head, moon high behind his broad shoulders, and asks sullenly, "Do I need to buy a coffin now."

 

"What," Jaejoong says, thrown off, face falling.

 

"Now that I'm a vampire," Yoochun amends vulnerably.

 

"No... we," Jaejoong says, unguarded. "We sleep in beds," and more importantly. "You're not a vampire."

 

Yoochun's head snaps up.

 

"I need your consent for that," Jaejoong says and regrets it immediately because Yoochun is jumping up, re-energized.

 

"I'm out," he tells Jaejoong and brushes by like a hurricane.

 

Reeling, Jaejoong catches his wrist.

 

"You can't keep me here," Yoochun says but it's more of a question.

 

"Technically..." Jaejoong stalls, "that's not... legal, no, but—"

 

Yoochun shakes him off, storming toward the door.

 

Jaejoong should let him go.

 

He means to let him go.

 

But he finds himself latching onto Yoochun's back, hands wrapping around his waist like a vise, fangs greedily sinking in again.

 

*

 

"You can file a complaint," Junsu says because Junsu is definitely an asshole.

 

Yoochun gives him a wary look, one elbow resting on the kitchen table. "There's a vampire courthouse?"

 

"There's a vampire everything," Junsu nods.

 

Jaejoong fidgets in the corner, hungry.

 

He's never been hungry like this.

 

He's so hungry he could die.

 

"Are they..." Yoochun starts carefully, studiously ignoring the corner, "...is the court going to execute him if I—"

 

"What," Junsu laughs, obnoxious. "No, they'll just suspend his driver's license for a year."

 

"...it's my first offense..." Jaejoong supplies and is promptly ignored.

 

Yoochun remains quiet for a long moment, his shirt still ripped, still bloody, still smelling like Jaejoong wants to make a pillowcase out of it, and then he stands up, unbalanced, and murmurs, "Just let me go home and we'll pretend this never happened."

 

Junsu huffs in relief.

 

Gingerly, Yoochun touches his fingers to the twin holes marring his neck, contemplates for a moment, then heads for the hallway.

 

Jaejoong instantly shifts after him, hands grabbing at air.

 

" _Sit_ ," Junsu warns when the door closes, waving the stack of legal forms in Jaejoong's face and pinning him down with a rough disapproving stare. " _Leave it_." He falters when Jaejoong's head plonks to the table. "...you'll be fine."

 

*

 

Jaejoong's not fine.

 

He's hungry.

 

His fangs hurt and his tongue keeps poking out, trying to taste what's no longer there, and he's going to die.

 

It's been two days and he's sleepy and miserable and what if he appeals the court for temporary proprietorship of Yoochun.

 

Just once a week.

 

Once a week would be fine.

 

"You'll get yourself banished," Junsu sighs, dragging a tired hand down his face and thrusting a cold blood packet at Jaejoong's face. "Just drink."

 

Jaejoong doesn't.

 

*

 

Four days later, Junsu brings him blood pie.

 

"Please," he says urgently, trying to entice Jaejoong by waving it under Jaejoong's nose. "If you die, I won't be able to cover the rent."

 

Inexplicably grossed out by the smell, Jaejoong burrows under the sheets.

 

*

 

Jaejoong is so hungry.

 

He's never gone ten whole days without eating and eating never felt like a necessity before but now his bones feel hollowed out and his skin feels charred and his chest and gut are twisted up and knotted through and he keeps replaying that first time, and the second time, the way Yoochun just opened up beneath his fangs and spilled into his mouth, warm and sticky—

 

"He has class tomorrow," Junsu notifies him as he barges into the room, audibly shoves someone in, then grumbles a parting, "so go easy on him."

  
...oh.

 

Wide-eyed, Jaejoong hastily un-burritos from his sheets and meets Yoochun's eyes.

 

Yoochun looks flushed and awkward and ready to bolt, and his scent is so overpowering and Jaejoong's on him blindingly-fast.

 

"Don't do it where anyone can see—" Yoochun starts as his back collides with a wall, "...yeah, you don't care."

 

Jaejoong sinks in, devastated.

 

*

 

"Just wear gloves."

 

Jaejoong pauses.

 

"When you're making it," Yoochun clarifies, watching Jaejoong fight with a clove of garlic. He leans against the kitchen wall, contemplative. "If you wear gloves, it's fine, right."

 

Jaejoong has no time to feel stupid.

 

Only hungry.

 

He tries not to crush Yoochun into the plywood, restrains himself with a harsh exhale, and pokes at the cutting board, purposefully quoting Junsu. "Maybe I should just stop cooking with garlic."

 

"Eh," Yoochun shrugs, "I like garlic."

 

Jaejoong crushes him into the plywood.

 

*

 

Jaejoong wakes up mid-nap.

 

The sun is annoyingly bright and dangerously high in the sky and no one's closed the curtains in the living room so when he pokes his head in and unexpectedly sees Yoochun napping on the couch, completely defenseless, a beam of direct sunlight creeping closer to Yoochun's bare feet, an instinctual kind of panic kicks in and then Jaejoong's scrambling toward the window to draw the curtains shut.

 

The logic fail and the burn register belatedly.

 

He yelps and drops the heavy fold of the fabric and the sun ignites through the window, singeing the back of his hand first and then his cheek and it hurts and he should move but—

 

A warm weight knocks him out of the way, curling around his torso protectively.

 

With a distressed inhale, Yoochun tugs the drapes down like a cape, almost bringing the entire rod crashing down, and tucks his other hand around Jaejoong's face like a shield.

 

Junsu chooses this moment to walk in, smiling at a phone case with kittens on it.

 

He pauses, scanning the scene with a guilty twitch of his nose.

 

"You're... just..." Yoochun starts, disbelieving, still cradling Jaejoong's head, fingers shaking, "the worst vampires I've ever seen."

 

*

 

"You have to invite me in."

 

Yoochun pauses to process, then casually shuts his dorm window, effectively locking Jaejoong outside.

 

Jaejoong bares his fangs, crouched on a fat branch.

 

There's enough condensation on the glass for him to spell _d-y-i-n-g_ before considering a very dramatic tree fall designed to draw Yoochun out—

 

Cranky, Yoochun opens the window.

 

"I'm not scrubbing you out of asphalt," he complains. "Come in."

 

Happily, Jaejoong tumbles in, partially using Yoochun as a ladder and a chair, then aims for Yoochun's neck, jaw practically unhinging in anticipation.

 

He gets a pillow to the head.

 

"I have to study," Yoochun warns, slumping back against his headboard with a thing of textbooks and a belligerent glower. "Aren't there vampire universities."

 

There are.

 

Jaejoong just never wanted to go to one.

 

Until now.

 

"Gonna help," he promises, unapologetically blanketing Yoochun's body. "Vampire bites have recall properties."

 

Yoochun snorts like he knows that's total bullshit but lets Jaejoong fall asleep with his fangs nestled deep inside.

 

 

*

 

Jaejoong is almost successfully to the mailbox when Junsu intercepts.

 

"Hand it over."

 

Grudgingly, Jaejoong relinquishes the application.

 

"They won't let you _own_ a human," Junsu lectures indignantly and sets the entire stack of forms on fire.

 

 

*

 

"Do vampires drink from other vampires."

 

The hair on Jaejoong's nape prickles. "What."

 

"Just wondering," Yoochun says nonchalantly, drawing three cards and discarding two. He sends a strange, inquisitive glance Junsu's way, eyes unusually dark. "Did you two ever... drink from each other."

 

Junsu makes a face, shuffling the deck. "That's gross."

 

"Doesn't answer my question," Yoochun says calmly but his voice has dropped by an octave.

 

Jaejoong's fangs pierce through his gums with embarrassing speed.

 

"Never," he vows.

 

"...Christ," Junsu says, disgusted, then winces as the word scalds his skin.

 

"But you _can_ , right," Yoochun insists, eyes trained on the stack of chips in the center of the table. "It would still taste the same? If a human became... if he wasn't..." he trails off, struggling. "Never mind, I call."

 

Jaejoong folds a full house, hope seeping into him like ink.

 

*

 

"He said he's gonna be gone for a week," Junsu yawns.

 

Jaejoong freezes by the sink.

 

"Something about school..." Junsu explains, distracted, looking up cat videos on his phone.

 

No.

 

Jaejoong can't do a week.

 

He's not totally sure how he gets to Yoochun's dorm or how quickly but when he bursts in, Yoochun's zipping up a suitcase, bathed in moonlight, a determined scowl in place.

 

"Oh, right," he says when he notices Jaejoong as though Jaejoong is only an afterthought Yoochun occasionally has. "Go ahead."

 

Automatically, he grabs the collar of his shirt and pulls down, willingly baring his neck.

 

Jaejoong just stands there, hurt.

 

Confused, Yoochun rises. "Not hungry?"

 

Always, Jaejoong thinks but says, "A week?"

 

Yoochun averts his eyes and steps closer, doesn't offer an excuse or an apology, just presses his forehead to Jaejoong's cheek at an uncomfortably intimate angle, as though urging him to drink.

 

"I could drain you right now," Jaejoong threatens because he can't do a week, won't do a week.

 

Yoochun tenses. "You need my consent for that."

 

Snarling, Jaejoong buries in deep.

 

*

 

Twelve hours without snacking and Jaejoong strips down an entire kitchen wall of tile.

 

He's only trying to make blood popsicles but his mouth tastes like ashes and every scent in the apartment is pungent and unappealing and making him dry-heave and gag and so he throws a microwave through the adjoining wall.

 

When Junsu wanders by, trying to warm up his blood pack, Jaejoong barks he has no idea what a microwave even is.

 

*

 

Nineteen hours without anything and Jaejoong's leaning his forehead against the window, objectively admiring the sunrise.

 

Cursing loudly, Junsu punts him away from the glass as the first ray of light clears the horizon.

 

*

 

A whole day goes by and Jaejoong prepares a last will and testament.

 

*

 

No, it's fine, Jaejoong thinks, guzzling down a lukewarm blood pack in some nauseating variation of O positive.

 

Humans outnumber vampires 100,000 to one so surely his odds of finding edible things are decent.

 

He curls up with a box of fun-sized blood packets, sucking each one down and grimacing.

 

*

 

Two days in, he's so desperate for Yoochun he's delusional enough to think he can scent him nearby.

 

But then his doorbell buzzes and Yoochun is standing there, the real Yoochun, who smells like naps and birthdays, only his face is fever-red and mortified and his hands are lunging for the back of Jaejoong's neck, yanking him close with surprising force.

 

"Do it," Yoochun says desperately, forcing Jaejoong's fangs in, "I need—I need—do it, the whole thing, _do it_."

 

Jaejoong burns up, sinking in so deep he's not sure he'll ever find his way out.

 

*

 

Tentatively, Jaejoong leans his ear to the door. "Go check."

 

Irritated, Junsu rolls his eyes and violently kicks the door in.

 

Yoochun's spread out on Jaejoong's bed, one arm thrown over his face, thick curtains drawn tight, sheer white drapes fluttering over them.

 

Yoochun's cheeks are a little paler, his lips a little redder, and it's a problem, it's a huge problem because his scent is even stronger now and it's mixed with Jaejoong's and Jaejoong freezes, helplessly rooted with pride and want and _mine_.

 

After a slow lazy stretch, Yoochun sits up, slightly disoriented, but then his eyes—clear and slanted and flashing dangerously—instantly focus on Jaejoong.

 

"Need that," he decides with a low growl and then he's on Jaejoong so fast even Jaejoong can't keep up.

 

Yoochun's lips, colder now, clamp down on Jaejoong's throat, tongue darting out to kitten-lick Jaejoong's skin, followed by a long hard sweep upwards, as though Yoochun's preparing him, almost delicately, and then sharp fangs are piercing through and latching on hungrily, suckling without restraint.

 

"Oh," Jaejoong says, fingers clenching empty air.

 

Yoochun pulls out, then impatiently sinks back in, lower on Jaejoong's neck, pulls his mouth off again, bites down on the curve of Jaejoong's shoulder, nips back up to a vein, drinks deep and fast and greedy, mouths at Jaejoong's skin with his bottom canines, too, marks and claims everything as though all of Jaejoong is a meal.

 

"...yeah, I'm moving out," Junsu comments dryly.

 

*

 

"WHY WOULD YOU _EAT_ IT," Junsu rages, pushing them into the clinic, fangs glistening with spit.

 

"...because Jaejoong made it..." Yoochun defends innocently, face swelling up.

 

"WHY WOULD _YOU_ EAT IT," Junsu cries, shoving at Jaejoong's itchy shoulder.

 

"...because Yoochun was eating it..."

 

Snarling, Junsu slams them through a glass partition.

 

The receptionist glances up, rubs at the bridge of her nose, and drones, "Take a seat."


	24. jaechun

  * schmoopy angst for [jyjfromdbskyoona](http://tmblr.co/mqBilLhcrXHDZzyD52znXBA); [jaechun]



 

* * *

 

 

_23:11 noodles_

 

Jaejoong squints at his phone.

 

Yoochun hasn't texted him in a month. But apparently tonight he wants noodles so Jaejoong summons his manager over, says _something spicy_ , and drifts back on set.

 

The scene wraps for the night, drama still surprisingly ahead of schedule, and so Jaejoong drowsily piles into his manager's car, rapidly-cooling container safe in his lap, and presses his forehead to the window.

 

It's kind of rude as fuck but he shows up at Yoochun's house unannounced, bypassing the gate and buzzing himself in.

 

"Yoochunie wanted noodles," he tells Yoohwan, sleepy.

 

Yoohwan shuts the front door behind him, bowl of popcorn cradled against his chest.

 

"Is that some Korean slang I still haven't—you know what," he greets as Jaejoong toes off his boots, "it's cool. I don't need to know. Hyung's upstairs."

 

So Jaejoong climbs the stairs, limbs heavy, head foggy.

 

It's a mistake.

 

He knows it's a mistake the moment he pushes the door to Yoochun's room, quietly crosses the threshold, and spies Yoochun standing by the wide TV stand, back turned.

 

He's wet from the shower, absentmindedly running a towel through his hair, eyes fixed on a competing network's old drama reruns. The air's thick with the scent of his new body wash, sharp and clean and very unfamiliar, and Jaejoong suddenly feels like a stranger, awkward, uninvited.

 

"Is that good for your shoulder," he asks with a pang of voyeuristic shame.

 

That, at least, is familiar.

 

Yoochun startles, spinning around, the towel around his hips shifting dangerously. " _Hyung_."

 

And because every room with Yoochun has always felt safe—unsettlingly so, in that way things felt safe when one day Jaejoong just had all these sisters who piggybacked him up and down the stairs and made sure his head didn't smack into walls and ceilings and bannisters and his tiny heart suddenly couldn't fit everything it felt—Jaejoong navigates the hardwood floor and claims Yoochun's bed with a casual, "You wanted noodles."

 

Yoochun stares.

 

Then laughs.

 

"No," he apologizes, gaze warm, "I... just... saw stills for your drama, sorry."

 

Jaejoong frowns.

 

There's a half-instinctual want urging him to plate the noodles, make it a proper presentation, but it's not like he made them and it's close to 1:00 AM and there are no plates anyway and Yoochun looks sleepy with too much rest, a stark contrast to Jaejoong's dry scratchy eyes and mouth and so what the hell is he talking about.

 

"What."

 

"I thought," Yoochun continues, amused, folding one towel atop the TV stand and bridging the distance to claim a spot next to Jaejoong, eyes traveling to Jaejoong's forehead and the uneven bangs uglifying his face, "you'd be playing some evil crime lord, not a... noodle delivery guy."

 

"...I can be evil," Jaejoong says, styrofoam container warming his lap.

 

"You own a Hello Kitty museum," Yoochun dismisses him with a distracted laugh, gaze traveling back to the TV, assessing some actor's crying mannerisms.

 

He actually dismisses Jaejoong as though it hasn't been two months since they were in the same room, as though Jaejoong is just some dude, an old forgotten poster on the wall, and Jaejoong's kind of used to feeling unwanted, but not today.

 

"Youngdal is selfish," he starts patiently, placing the food on the floor by a bedpost. "He's trash."

 

Yoochun turns his head to send him a distantly bemused look.

 

"He takes what he wants, whenever he wants," Jaejoong explains because he's running on four hours of sleep this week and so much—too much—of Youngdal lingers after-hours.

 

It seems like a convenient excuse.

 

"I can take whatever I want," he announces despondently.

 

"Sure," Yoochun nods, inattentive.

 

It's an obvious brush-off.

 

It's kind of like a razor-thin cut so Jaejoong doesn't feel the thing at first but then the blood pools, shallow and awful; it hurts and aches, throbs deep and dull, so he gets off the bed and crosses the room on unsteady legs, and says, "I'll show you."

 

Deliberate, he locks the door.

 

Yoochun's head swivels to stare at him with a bewildered sort of confusion.

 

"Hyung," he says, flustered, "what."

 

"You didn't see me for two months," Jaejoong replies, trudging back, shedding his jacket and unbuckling his belt. "Are you practicing for when it's two years?"

 

Yoochun's eyes widen. "Wait, what—"

 

"Because if you are," Jaejoong warns tiredly, "I'll make sure you feel me for years."

 

Unnerved, Yoochun shifts on the bed, feet planted firmly on the floor. "Are you... are you practicing lines?"

 

"I've had to learn how to gamble," Jaejoong offers, advancing. "My character is a gambler."

 

Glaring, Yoochun sends him a sharp look, "One r or two."

 

Jaejoong pauses, thrown. "What."

 

"Just wondering how to spell cirrhosis," Yoochun warns, rising, one hand clutching the towel where it knots by his hipbone.

 

"I'm not drunk," Jaejoong argues, spreading his arms, frustrated.

 

He can't fuck this up, won't fuck it up, but if Youngdal can exist and thrive on nothing but risk and greed, why can't Jaejoong. Why can't he, when Yoochun walks right up to this point, has sauntered up to the line for eleven years and not crossed it, has hovered on the border and always retreated like a high tide at dawn, wary of the sun.

 

"What I want is up to me," he says, cautiously stepping into Yoochun's space, resolve building, intent solidifying. "Getting what I want is up to you."

 

Flash-frozen but maintaining a decent poker face, Yoochun asks, not unsympathetically, "What do you want, hyung."

 

So Jaejoong schools his features and launches into an emotional, "I don't care if you call me an incompetent actor–"

 

"I DIDN'T—"

 

"I don't care what you call me, Yoochunnie," he raises his voice, "as long as you call me."

 

Yoochun winces guiltily.

 

"Okay," he says, almost relieved, clutching at his towel like a lifeline. "I get it. Hyung. I'm sorry—"

 

"Okay," Jaejoong agrees evenly, "so now we'll both have something to apologize for."

 

Anxious, he shoves at Yoochun's warm chest with one shaking hand.

 

Yoochun goes sprawling across the bed, back thumping against the mattress, towel loosening, ends parting between his thighs.

 

Unhurriedly, Jaejoong climbs on the bed and straddles Yoochun with borrowed confidence.

 

"Whenever I want it," he says as though reading from a script because this won't happen otherwise, "you'll give it."

 

Instead of punting him through a wall, Yoochun shuts his eyes, teeth digging into his bottom lip.

 

Stunned, Jaejoong's heart kicks in his chest.

 

Beneath him, Yoochun is hard.

 

Of course he's hard, Jaejoong thinks absently, anyone would be after hearing that dumb shit. Except Jaejoong knows Yoochun. He knows Yoochun has impeccable control; has witnessed it first-hand on stage, public or otherwise, has seen dancers seductively run their hands across Yoochun's crotch with no physical acknowledgment.

 

But under him, Yoochun is hard.

 

"...you want to give it," Jaejoong asks but it's rhetorical because this is why Youngdal can and Jaejoong can't—Youngdal can indulge in persistence hunting, in something primal, in chasing its prey until the prey wears itself out and surrenders.

 

Youngdal is programmed to outlast.

 

Maybe Jaejoong is, too.

 

"Wanna take it," he hears himself tell Yoochun and it's fucked up, it's fucked up because the first time Yoochun realized who Jaejoong really is, he said _oh it's like that you're like that_ and _I'm not but it's cool if you are_.

 

Jaejoong should be grateful for the unconditional acceptance, the lack of judgment—

 

It should be enough.

 

Why isn't it enough.

 

"Yoochunnie," he says, voice hoarse, allowing Yoochun to finally shove him off and sit up because Jaejoong is not Youngdal and because Yoochun's mother is sleeping one floor below and Yoochun's little brother is watching a movie downstairs, "do you know what the hardest thing to kill is?"

 

Furious, Yoochun presses him into the mattress, eyes focused on nothing in particular, and growls a soft, quiet, "Hope."

 

Which is what's suddenly ticking in Jaejoong's chest, catching fire.

 

Because Yoochun is bearing down, pushing Jaejoong's shirt up past his tattoos, impatient, one knee fighting its way between Jaejoong's thighs, lips parted.

 

He pauses with a sudden alarmed frown and belatedly, Jaejoong remembers his tattoos are gone.

 

Yoochun's eyes darken in disapproval.

 

His towel slips off and wordlessly, he brings his mouth to Jaejoong's skin, starts above his heart, licks and rubs at the makeup until the ink bleeds back, black on pink.

 

"Turn around," he says, voice low.

 

Mindlessly, Jaejoong flips over, pants dragging over his cock, hips automatically grinding into the sheets.

 

Yoochun readjusts and straddles the backs of Jaejoong's knees, palms sinking into the small of Jaejoong's back, nails skimming over his own name, caked in makeup. He kneads at the spot in gentle, possessive circles, and Jaejoong's ribcage resounds with a rhythmic _yoo-chun_ in lieu of a heartbeat.

 

"Do you really," Yoochun asks miserably, slumping until his body blankets Jaejoong's entirely, elbows digging into the mattress by Jaejoong's ribs, chin pressing painfully into Jaejoong's right shoulder blade. "Do you really want this."

 

Jaejoong has wanted this for so long, any of it, all of it, bits and pieces if he can't have the whole thing— _anything_. The want has lingered like grains of sand after a trip to the beach, trapped forever in places it shouldn't exist, persistent and lasting despite his infinite attempts to shake it.

 

"Because, hyung," Yoochun says, "you only want things until you get them."

 

Jaejoong freezes.

 

Yoochun lifts up and folds himself into a sitting position, dragging a tired hand down his face, cock curving toward his stomach, skin flushed down to his navel.

 

Stupidly, Jaejoong sits up, too, driven nonverbal.

 

"You have a habit of dropping things after they're not new anymore," Yoochun mumbles, averting his eyes and covering his lap with both hands.

 

Defensive, Jaejoong grapples for a rational justification, an example of something permanent in his life, but there's abandoned pets and relationships and music genres, so he manages a nonsensical, "I still like driving—?"

 

Yoochun meets his eyes, unhappy. "Hyung. You're not driving the same car."

 

...oh.

 

Oh god, Jaejoong thinks with a pang of guilt because Yoochun is not a fucking car. Yoochun is not disposable.

 

Yoochun is everything.

 

But what comes out is an offended angry, "We could've fucked a year ago if you weren't busy over-analyzing my fucking car collection?" Yoochun opens his mouth to retaliate but Jaejoong is achingly hard and unexpectedly bitter and he so challenges, "Don't _you_ change cars more often than you change your fucking sweaters?"

 

"You're not a sweater," Yoochun says softly.

 

"What the fuck am I," Jaejoong rasps out.

 

"Everything."

 

...well.

 

Fuck.

 

"Lie down," he says seriously, sleep deprivation replaced by general Yoochun deprivation, and gets off the bed, sheds his belt and pants and ugly red boxers.

 

Uncomprehending, Yoochun only blinks up at him.

 

So Jaejoong grabs him by one ankle and drags him half off the bed, maneuvering him over the edge of the mattress, forces his knees to the floor and bends him, stomach-down, to the sheets.

 

He drops down into a crouch behind him, body high on the visual and all it promises.

 

"Eleven years ago," Yoochun says, muffled, squirming, palms bracing against the sheets. "Not a year ago."

  
That's all it takes for Jaejoong to drape himself over Yoochun's back, cock nestling under Yoochun's ass with an achy throb, and offer an apologetic, "I felt like you told me no before I even asked."

 

"You didn't ask, you idiot," Yoochun grumbles and tries to twist away but he's letting Jaejoong.

 

 _He's letting him do this_.

 

"When you tell Junsu about this," Yoochun says, mortified, "don't tell him I didn't top—"

 

Jaejoong wants to laugh but his body can't focus on anything except wildly grinding up, down, up, sliding his hips across the soft smooth curve of Yoochun's ass.

 

"Hyung—" Yoochun warns, lacing his fingers behind his head like a hostage, face half-hidden by a pale forearm, back muscles stretched with the effort.

 

"Say you would," Jaejoong says, pushing off and trying to talk his knees into cooperating while he scans the room.

 

Yoochun peeks through his makeshift shelter of limbs, unmoving. "What."

 

Sock drawer, Jaejoong guesses, because neither of them owns socks, and stomps to rummage through it with trembling restless fingers. "Say you'd do anything I want."

 

There's a moment of silence.

 

And then an honest, "Hyung. I'd do anything you want."

 

Jaejoong's cock pulses painfully.

 

"Under the sock drawer," Yoochun says, faltering. "Condoms two drawers down."

 

"Not with me," Jaejoong says, grabs the lube, tries not to scowl at the tiny _for her pleasure_ scrawled on the tube, then proffers it triumphantly.

 

Yoochun makes a small embarrassed noise, burying his face back into the sheets.

 

Weak with lust, Jaejoong returns and sinks to his knees, body drawn back to Yoochun's, arms bracketing him on each side, one hand pressing to Yoochun's temple.

 

"Chun-ah," he asks Yoochun's nape, "should I stop."

 

"Yeah," Yoochun says, turns his head, and puts his mouth on the inside of Jaejoong's wrist.

  
This is obviously some sort of hallucination brought upon acute sleep deprivation but if that's the only way Jaejoong can get this—

 

With Yoochun's mother sleeping one floor below and Yoochun's little brother watching a movie downstairs, Jaejoong cracks the top of the tube open with a loud wet pop, slides a hand between their bodies, and works Yoochun open.

 

"Jesus," Yoochun gasps, trying to jerk away from Jaejoong's fingers, hands tangling in the sheets.

 

Yoochun's hair is still wet and the scent of his shampoo is all kinds of inviting and somehow Jaejoong's withdrawing his fingers—too soon, too tight—and slicking himself up, craving deepening until Jaejoong just can't

 

do

 

slow

 

anymore.

 

Just the tip, he thinks delusionally, and works himself in but then even that little bit is like sliding home and that's it, game over.

 

"Hyung," Yoochun pants, voice laced with pain and suddenly Jaejoong wants to see.

 

"Right, your shoulder," he manages, shamelessly uses it as an excuse to haul Yoochun to bed properly, to lay him down over a pillow and slip back between his legs.

 

"Okay," Yoochun breathes, knees spreading, avoiding Jaejoong's eyes. "Definitely don't tell Junsu—"

 

Jaejoong presses a palm to Yoochun's twitching abdomen, restraining him from lifting his hips.

 

"Jesus," Yoochun repeats, flushed.

 

So Jaejoong slides his hand down Yoochun's hipbone, down his thigh, braces a thumb under his knee and nudges his legs wider apart.

 

Yoochun arches off the bed, suddenly grabby and growly and into it.

  
If Jaejoong were anywhere near coherent, he'd try saying things—talking trash and making ridiculous demands—because clearly Yoochun is a wonderful mess who gets off on that but the only thing Jaejoong can think to do is just fuck Yoochun stupid.

 

Hesitant, Yoochun wraps his legs around him, loosely, tentatively, arms hooked around Jaejoong's back with a kind of defenseless trust, and Jaejoong didn't know, wasn't aware it would feel like this, like he could actually have everything.

 

"Yoochunnie," he murmurs brokenly because he wants to hear Yoochun's desperately wrecked little moans, "you're gonna take it for me."

 

Instead of a reply, Yoochun gives an angry little scowl and violently grabs the back of Jaejoong's neck.

 

And then he kisses him like kissing is suddenly an art and Jaejoong is a masterpiece.

 

"I need to shut up," Jaejoong guesses, breathless, body irreparably ablaze.

 

Yoochun kisses him again like Jaejoong genuinely _is_ everything.

 

So Jaejoong pushes past the plump curve of Yoochun's ass, greedily guides his cock in, fucks into Yoochun, hard.

 

A corner sheet peels off the mattress as his toes scramble for purchase, bunching up with every stroke, struggling to feed his cock to Yoochun inch by inch, and Jaejoong finds himself caught on Yoochun's lips, unsure how to slow down. His body's already shaking apart and Yoochun is so pliant and so resistant beneath him, a confusing contradictory sensation rewriting Jaejoong's entire story, a prologue and an epilogue at once.

 

"Eleven years," he says stupidly, bottoming out, breath hitching, slick and achy with the burn slicing down his spine, "fuck."

 

Inhaling sharply, Yoochun bucks up, meeting the thrust, fingers clutching at Jaejoong's ass with a senseless kind of control. "Yeah."

 

Heat pools low in Jaejoong's belly, a greed so strong it feels unhealthy, so Jaejoong angles his hips with an impatient snap, driving deeper, tumbling too close to an orgasm.

 

Desperately, he tries to slow down but Yoochun meets his gaze and his mouth is open in a soundless affectionate laugh, corners of his lips curled in astonishment, eyes amused and playful, like none of the secrets they've shared compares to this one, like this is the ultimate secret, a 2:00 AM love song that will never see the light of day.

 

"Chun-ah," he reminds breathlessly, curling a sweaty slick hand around Yoochun's cock and twisting his wrist to match the pace because Yoochun has to come first, has to fall first, "whenever I want."

 

Yoochun spills with a needy little gasp, muscles clenching around Jaejoong, almost painfully.

 

Throbbing, Jaejoong rams through it, refusing to end this, fingers sticky and clawing at Yoochun's hips; angles them both better and loses himself to a series of quick shallow thrust, cock thickening, limbs shuddering, but this can't end yet—not yet—not ever—

 

"Whenever _I_ want," Yoochun murmurs, yanks Jaejoong's head down, wraps his arms and legs around Jaejoong with a kind of unrepentant ownership, impossibly hot and tight and pulsing and Jaejoong comes, helpless.

 

He whites out for a second, high on pleasure, then slumps across Yoochun, heart trying to kick out of his ribcage and into Yoochun's. Boneless, he clings to whatever part of Yoochun he can touch, teeth instinctively scraping against his skin, tongue lapping at the sweat, and then reality fucking hits him.

 

Panic swells instantly, igniting every single insecurity.

 

Yoochun's bed looks and feels like prehistoric ruins and what Jaejoong emotionally blackmailed him into doing is reprehensible and he fucked up, he fucked up so bad, Yoochun's going to hate him—

 

Alarmed, he pulls out, wincing at the ache, remorseful at Yoochun's grunt of pain, and tries to bolt off the bed, almost stepping on the styrofoam container by his feet.

 

"No," Yoochun says sternly, voice thick with a sleepy soft ruefulness, and tugs Jaejoong down by the wrist, a heavy solid anchor beneath him, "you made this mess, you'll sleep in it."

 

 

 

*

 

_21:39 noodles_

 

Jaejoong snorts, pocketing his phone and crossing his legs, stuck in the makeup chair for the foreseeable future.

 

His phone beeps again.

 

And again.

 

Biting his lip to keep from grinning stupidly, Jaejoong meets noona's eyes.

 

"Please make sure the tattoos are completely covered," he instructs with an innocent purse of his lips.

 

She beams at him, pleased, "Aw, Jaejoong-ssi, you're so committed to this character!"

 

Jaejoong grins at his hands, giddy.

 

"Yeah. Fully."


	25. jaechun

  * met as children AU for [iheart9095](http://tmblr.co/mKL-zMT6JJpC4o1oyYpk7qw); [jaechun]



 

* * *

 

 

Yoochun's family moves to Seoul on his fourth birthday.

 

When he's four and three-quarters, a bakery opens across the street.

 

His mom tugs him along as he stops to stare at a fleet of moving vans and a sulky kid getting in everyone's way.

 

Yoochun's feet won't move.

 

*

 

When Yoochun's four and three-quarters and two days, he toddles into the park and goes for his favorite swing but his favorite swing has a barnacle. The barnacle has skinned knees, scraped knuckles, and long hair. His overalls are dusted with flour and he's twisting on the swing with an ugly glower.

 

So Yoochun glances at a group of boys off in the distance, equally scuffed and hunched together by a seesaw, whispering angrily, and Yoochun thinks, oh.

 

He turns back and says, "That's my swing."

 

"I'm a _boy_ ," the kid says.

 

Yoochun makes a face. "I know."

 

The kid falters.

 

"My swing..." Yoochun tries again because it _is_ his swing.

 

The kid kicks off the ground, swinging higher than Yoochun ever has.

 

"It's mine now."

 

*

 

The kid goes to the park every day.

 

And every day, he steals Yoochun's swing.

 

Every day, Yoochun quietly sucks on a popsicle, sitting one swing over.

 

*

 

One day, the kid says, "You're it."

 

Yoochun tags him by the sandbox, leaping over a giant concrete frog and pouncing like he's learned in taekwondo.

 

Under him, the kid laughs.

 

*

 

Jaejoong says, "I'm gonna bake you cookies."

 

He makes them out of sand, misshapen and crumbling.

 

Yoochun almost eats four.

 

*

 

Caught in a downpour, waiting for their parents, Yoochun rhythmically taps his palms on the slide like it's a drum.

 

"I'm gonna write you a song."

 

Jaejoong listens patiently.

 

*

 

Because Jaejoong lives above a bakery, his room smells like chocolate and Yoochun doesn't like chocolate but he wants to live here.

 

"I'm gonna live here," he tells Jaejoong's mom earnestly.

 

She pats his head with a smile.

 

"Okay."

 

*

 

Yoochun's dad buys a piano.

 

Jaejoong accidentally spills milk over the keys two hours later.

 

Yoochun packs a backpack.

 

They run away together before anyone notices the mess.

 

*

 

They get two blocks down the street before Yoochun's dad cruises to a stop by their tired feet, elbow resting on the rolled-down car window.

 

"Which one of you was it?" he asks mildly.

 

Yoochun says, "I'm sorry," because that's not a lie.

 

"Get in," his dad says.

 

Guiltily, Jaejoong looks at Yoochun.

 

Yoochun grabs his tiny warm hand and they pile into the back seat together.

 

The car idles for a while and Yoochun feels like they could go anywhere, do anything.

 

*

 

Yoochun is 1-1 and Jaejoong is 1-7 and their classrooms are at opposite ends of the hallway.

 

Yoochun spends the first week sending mournful glances down the crowded corridor.

 

*

 

On the second Monday, Jaejoong sneaks into 1-1.

 

He fixes Yoochun's shirt collar and steals Yoochun's pencil case.

 

He leaves his Hello Kitty eraser as collateral.

 

*

 

In second grade, a girl says, "Walk me home," so Yoochun walks her home.

 

Jaejoong doesn't speak to him for a month.

 

*

 

Halfway through year three, Jaejoong bakes actual cookies for his classmates.

 

Yoochun's heart somehow feels split open.

 

*

 

Yoochun has to perform at a piano recital on Jaejoong's tenth birthday.

 

Jaejoong pouts for days, swears up and down that Yoochun has to reschedule, threatens to never speak to Yoochun again.

 

After Yoochun bows to the audience at the end of his part, he notices Jaejoong leaning against a far wall, arms crossed, mouth pursed.

 

"Happy—hyung, hey! Happy birthday!" Yoochun shouts, rounding his hands like a megaphone, and it's super embarrassing but.

 

He's dragged off the stage within a minute but Jaejoong's covering his face, shoulders shaking with repressed laughter.

 

*

 

For Yoochun's tenth birthday, Jaejoong's mom takes them to the beach.

 

"You're it," Jaejoong grins and tries to make a break for it but gravity is not his friend lately and so his feet tangle around a towel.

 

He faceplants into Yoochun's arms.

 

Yoochun thinks maybe Jaejoong really is it.

 

*

 

"I wanna see a movie," a girl from 6-3 tells him and so they go see a movie.

 

They stand in line and hold hands and share popcorn.

 

After, instead of going home, he shuffles into the bakery, climbs the stairs, shoves Jaejoong off the bed, and takes his controller.

 

They play co-op until morning.

 

 

*

 

Jaejoong has a girlfriend.

 

Yoochun is okay with this.

 

*

 

Yoochun is really not okay with this.

 

*

 

When he's sixteen, Yoochun's dad says, "How does Virginia sound."

 

*

 

"You're not going," Jaejoong says, hoarse.

 

"What's the point in staying," Yoochun shrugs, staring at Jaejoong's math workbook.

 

It's barely been touched with actual math but there's a photo booth sticker of Jaejoong and some girl.

 

"What the fuck," Jaejoong says, gripping the school desk. "You're not going."

 

"It's not like you'll miss me," Yoochun mumbles, straddling the chair with a flippant wave of his wrist.

 

Jaejoong shoves at his shoulder, furious. "Yeah."

 

*

 

Jaejoong's mom bakes a going-away cake.

 

It's a big round thing with two small semi-circles, forming a frosted Mickey Mouse head, in honor of Yoochun's new name.

 

Jaejoong stays in his room, door locked.

 

*

 

On the plane, Yoochun fends off an asthma attack on sheer willpower.

 

He doesn't cry because men don't cry.

 

Especially over other men.

 

*

 

In Virginia, Yoochun needs a whole new wardrobe.

 

Most of his clothes are somehow missing.

 

*

 

Three girlfriends later, Yoochun receives an offer to play piano professionally.

 

In Seoul.

 

He declines.

 

*

 

"Your friend opened up a coffee shop," his dad yawns into the newspaper, sipping tea.

 

Yoochun feigns indifference, sprawled on the couch. "Who?"

 

His dad lowers the newspaper to stare, unimpressed.

 

*

 

"Oh," Yoohwan mumbles awkwardly, scrolling through his phone.

 

"What," Yoochun asks around a mouthful of pizza.

 

"Nothing," Yoohwan says, quickly swiping left.

 

"What," Yoochun frowns, grabs the phone, and slides the screen back with greasy fingers.

 

It's a twitter page with a grainy filtered picture: Jaejoong, stupidly winking at the camera with both eyes, some sketchy guy draped over him, lips pursed at Jaejoong's mouth, fingers digging into Jaejoong's right shoulder.

 

The food tries to work its way back up.

 

*

 

"If the position is still open," Yoochun says into the phone, palms sweaty, "I'd like to be considered for it."

 

*

 

He's twenty-four and dumber than he was at sixteen.

 

The plane almost shakes apart during landing but Yoochun thinks about how many steps it used to take from his apartment to the bakery, how many stairs there were to Jaejoong's room, what Jaejoong's pillow used to smell like.

 

He counts memories instead of breaths, eyes shut, lungs full.

 

He's last to deplane.

 

*

 

It takes 7,983 steps to Jaejoong's coffee shop, according to Yoochun's phone.

 

Outside of the café, beneath the striped awning, there's a wrought-iron bistro set.

 

Jaejoong's sitting there with a group of people, laughing. His jeans are tight, ripped, dark, hair bleached, shoulders broad and dusted with snowflakes.

 

Yoochun's feet won't move.

 

*

 

Hilariously, Yoochun's first real concert coincides with Jaejoong's birthday.

 

It's a mixture of classical music and his original compositions and he loses himself in each piece.

 

When he's done, he can swear he smells chocolate.

 

*

 

He's early for a date with some noona, sleepily leaning against a lamppost and scrolling through his texts when something violently pulls his scarf from behind.

 

Stumbling, he yelps and turns around and Jaejoong's staring.

 

"Seriously," he greets Yoochun bitterly, hands tangled in the scarf, "now I don't even exist anymore?"

 

Yoochun's heart isn't moving, can't move.

 

Jaejoong is all that exists.

 

He's a song Yoochun wrote for himself.

 

One he won't let anyone else sing.

 

Stupidly, his face splits into a lopsided grin, smelling coffee and chocolate and forever.

 

With a helpless laugh, he tucks his scarf around Jaejoong's confused head and says,

 

"Mine now."

 

*

 

When he's twenty-four and three-quarters, Yoochun moves into Jaejoong's apartment.


	26. jaechun

  * anon wanted a ~one sentence drabble about that ero drama [Yoochun hypothetically inflicted upon us](http://boonies.tumblr.com/post/94141752221/fuck-everything); [jaechun]



 

* * *

 

 

"No," Junsu pleads, scrambling to his feet, "at least wait until I'm out of the room—"

 

"What kind of ero drama," Jaejoong asks over him, casually blocking the exit.

 

"I don't know," Yoochun shrugs, equally nonchalant. "Something artistic."

 

" _Please_ ," Junsu says, hair flattening in defeat.

 

Contemplative, Jaejoong shoves him back into the nearest makeup chair. "Will I have to strip?"

 

Yoochun arches an eyebrow.

 

*

 

"Noona," Yoochun starts, tone respectful.

 

"Tips on nude scenes," Jaejoong greets, waving an americano as bait.

 

Jihyo shuts the door in their faces.

 

*

 

On the plane, Jaejoong pops his head over the seat and says, "It should be sky pirates."

 

"Do you... do you just wait until I can't escape," Junsu moans, helplessly pawing at the window.

 

Next to him, Yoochun slices through his portion of tonkatsu, offering a calm, "What about a sageuk."

 

*

 

The network exec ushers in a writer, presumably from the depths of a dystopian recycling yard.

 

The guy's tall and gangly and balding, sparse scattering of hair masquerading as a mustache above his thin upper lip, and he rubs at his Verbal Jint t-shirt before he says, "We're out of sageuks."

 

Nervous, the exec frowns, "...you can _write_ one."

 

The writer shrugs, squinting. "Which one of you's gonna have a dick in his mouth."

 

Yoochun trips over Jaejoong trying to get out the door.

 

*

 

"What," Yoochun says over lunch.

 

"What," Jaejoong frowns, wrapping an overstuffed ssambap for Yoochun. "When you said ero, I thought you and me."

 

"And _I_ thought," Yoochun explains, opening wide, "I'd play your sidekick."

 

Jaejoong stuffs the ssambap in Yoochun's mouth.

 

"Nah."

 

*

 

 

"Which one of us should top."

 

Junsu tears at the foils in his hair, bolting out of the salon and straight for traffic.

 

*

 

 

"Can't I just play the sidekick," Yoochun groans, napping on the studio floor.

 

"The sidekick wouldn't have any ero scenes," Jaejoong argues reasonably, crumpled next to him, sweaty and gross, "it'd be just me and some actress. Doing ero."

 

Yoochun sits up, meeting Jaejoong's eyes in a row of mirrors.

 

He fumes silently for a moment as their dancers quietly tiptoe away, then buries his head in his hands with a defeated groan.

 

"My mom's going to kill me."

 

*

 

"Hold on," his mom says, meticulously wiping her hands on her apron and shuffling out of the room.

 

She returns with a plastic seven-day pill planner and pops open one named Thursday.

 

"She's been preparing for this day," Yoohwan summarizes, sighing from the couch.

 

*

 

"Eh?" Jaejoong's dad says, adjusting his hearing aid. "Ero?"

 

"Is that that new boyband?" Jaejoong's mom asks with concern.

 

*

 

"Episode one is finished," the writer says, slapping a thin script to the table. "I couldn't do another sageuk."

 

Yoochun speed-reads in the car.

 

*

 

 

"It's tasteful," he informs the hotel room.

 

"Oh," Jaejoong says, disappointed, belly-down on Junsu's bed, and holds out his hand for the script.

 

"...what's it about," Junsu asks suspiciously, intercepting.

 

"Idols who plow each other," Yoochun mumbles with some distaste.

 

"...is that the actual summary," Junsu ventures, scandalized.

 

"I'm paraphrasing," Yoochun drawls.

 

Junsu makes a face. "That's a little..."

 

"Close to home?" Yoochun guesses.

 

"Well," Junsu replies, hesitating, "you're not... plowing each other."

 

Jaejoong sighs so loudly the walls shake.

 

*

 

During the concert, between songs, Yoochun mouths, "Did you finish reading."

 

Jaejoong doesn't reply.

 

But when they hit the _she should be my girl_ part, Jaejoong points at Yoochun.

 

Junsu spends the concert keeping a four meter distance.

 

*

 

A C-JeS family picnic seems like a prime casting opportunity.

 

Jaejoong sidles up to Hyejung while Yoochun approaches Jungeum.

 

Junsu hikes away, scaling a mountain in record time.

 

"And what role would I play—" Jungeum asks, baffled.

 

Jihyo pops up out of nowhere, steering her away and dutifully collecting Hyejung on the way, too.

 

" _No_."

 

*

 

"Maybe we should set up a matseon," Yoochun's mom says, worrying at her bottom lip, "before... everyone sees... the..."

 

Mercifully, Yoohwan steps in. "We should get you a wife before you plow hyung on TV."

 

Distracted, Yoochun grabs his phone.

 

_Is your family trying to arrange a matseon._

 

Jaejoong texts back,

 

_IS YOURS??_

 

*

 

"A matseon is not necessary," Jaejoong explains to Yoochun's mom as he crosses the threshold, laden with Moldir bribes, "not right... now. Maybe never, hm?"

 

Yoochun's mom pops a pill named Saturday.

 

*

 

"Really," Junsu drones sarcastically, tying his cleats. "You can't find a distributor. Tragic."

 

Next to him, Junho straightens his soccer jersey.

 

"Try China," he volunteers, looking reminiscent. "China is... messed up."

 

Junsu stares at him for a moment, then shuts his mouth and turns back to the bench. "Are you playing today or what?"

 

"It's so hot," Yoochun complains, sipping iced coffee, uniform on wrong.

 

Plastered to Yoochun's side, Jaejoong nods, FC MEN shorts way shorter than regulation allows. "We have to keep our bodies healthy~"

 

"...you realize exercise is good for that, right," Junsu says then gives up.

 

"Try China!" Junho throws over his shoulder with a tiny hopeful smile.

 

Junsu drags him away.

 

*

 

"Are you freaking out," Jaejoong asks with sympathy, fixing Yoochun's bangs.

 

"No," Yoochun lies, flattened against the wall. "I'm a professional."

 

"Look," Jaejoong says, half-naked, mid-practice, tapping the script to Yoochun's bare chest. "You touch yourself and you're a man. This isn't any different."

 

Yoochun opens his mouth.

 

Then pauses.

 

"...can't beat that logic."

 

*

 

"I can't do this," one of the PDs breathes, traumatized. "Cut. CUT."

 

"If you were on twitter," Jaejoong tells Yoochun, rumpled as fuck beneath him, lips swollen, heartbeat practically audible, "I'd unfollow you."

 

Flustered, Yoochun pries his fingers off Jaejoong's hips. "Oops."

 

*

 

Jaejoong brings Yoochun's mom the entire winter line of Moldir products.

 

*

 

"I didn't want this—I just wanted," Yoochun whines drunkenly, a shot of something strong held between his thumb and forefinger, "to show your body off."

 

"Okay," Jaejoong says, downs his drink, and bends over a laptop, squished next to Yoochun atop a thin inflatable mattress they stole from the set. "Why."

 

Yoochun pauses.

 

"I was... joking," he tries.

 

Jaejoong cocks his head. "Were you."

 

Guiltily, Yoochun restarts the first episode.

 

*

 

"WHY IS IT GETTING THESE RATINGS," Junsu cries to the ceiling, eyes bloodshot.

 

"Because we're good actors," Yoochun boasts, happy.

 

Junsu points an angry accusing finger at them. "THERE'S NO ACTING, YOU'RE JUST SUCKING ON EACH OTHER'S—"

 

Jaejoong cracks up, hiding his mouth.

 

"FACES," Junsu hollers, flushed, "I WAS GOING TO SAY FACES, YOU KNOW I WAS GOING TO SAY FACES."

 

Yoochun pats his shoulder, wise. "Look, you touch yourself and you're a man. It's not any different."

 

Horrified, Junsu stomps out.

 

*

 

"Extension?" Jaejoong blinks, fanning himself with the script.

 

"We're only on episode three," Yoochun translates, equally puzzled.

 

The network exec licks his lips, sweating. "...don't worry about it."

 

*

 

On the plane, Junsu eyes the window seat warily.

 

"No," he says, looking to trade.

 

Yoochun shoves him into the window seat and plops down, buckling them both in. "Just three episodes, come on."

 

Jaejoong pops his head over the seat, sunglasses on but clearly sulking behind them. "We went to your musicals..."

 

Stubborn, Junsu groans, covering his face as the episode starts.

 

Jaejoong leans over to make space between Junsu's fingers and angles his head toward the screen.

 

"Sir," a flight attendant warns in passing, gesturing at Jaejoong's unbuckled seat belt, then trips, catching a glimpse of the TV. "Emergency exits are... located to your... somewhere."

 

*

 

"Well," Junsu eulogizes as the screen fades to black, eyes dead, "at least you're not plowing each other for real."

 

"...right," Jaejoong says stiffly, elbows resting atop the seat, one cheek smushed to his sleeve.

 

"...sure," Yoochun agrees after an unconvincing beat, suspiciously pink. "At least there's that."


	27. jyj

  * JYJ halloween, based on Jaejoong's [tweet ](https://twitter.com/bornfreeonekiss/status/525223086728019969)



* * *

 

 

Junsu didn't mean to.

 

But there was a clown wielding a chainsaw ambling behind him and a crying nun caressing his cheek so Junsu wrote, "Yoochunnie would be sooo scared by this."

 

He got plenty of _oppa is so brave_ tweetbacks so he boldly soldiered his way through a horde of decomposing blonde children and howling headless zombies, awfully proud of—and impressed by—himself.

 

But now, standing at the airport, tired and disheveled and dodging an offended Yoochun wearing an unfinished ugly wool sweater flanked by an annoyed Jaejoong wearing one-quarter of an even uglier wool sweater, Junsu backpedals in hopes of re-boarding the plane.

 

"We'll show you scary," one of them greets with promise, slides open the van doors, and shoves Junsu in the back.

 

*

 

"You shouldn't have tweeted that," his manager complains helplessly as the van swerves to a stop, tires crunching on gravel. "They changed the shoot venue an hour after you posted."

 

Junsu paws at the window as the sky darkens.

 

*

 

"Here," Jaejoong says after the photoshoot, propelling Junsu into a tent.

 

It's a decent-sized tent, miraculously upright, decorated with little paper pumpkins and cute sparkling ghosts and if this is the extent of their revenge—

 

"Proof-shot," Jaejoong announces, noticeably offended, and plops Junsu down in one corner.

 

Yoochun shuffles closer, grim.

 

One of the staff takes a series of photos, stoically returns the phone to Jaejoong for inspection, then exits worriedly, tent doors flapping behind her.

 

Clearly on a mission, Jaejoong swipes left and right, gradually becoming distracted by his own gallery, until Yoochun nudges him with an intent _please focus_ kind of glare.

 

"Done," Jaejoong nods to himself, closes twitter with effort, and fixes his eyes on Junsu.

 

"In case you're never seen again," Yoochun adds, rising.

 

Nose wrinkled, Junsu accepts his proffered hand and scrambles up. "What."

 

"We're staying," Jaejoong explains, climbing to his feet and ushering him out, not gently.

 

Junsu pauses, ankles cold.

 

"What."

 

"We're staying," Yoochun echoes, lumbering over the groundsheet.

 

Junsu owns a considerable chunk of actual paradise he's banned both Yoochun and Jaejoong from and so he would naturally prefer to nap there, where his ankles are always warm and his members are always gone so he lets out a whiny little, "We're not sleeping in a tent."

 

"We're not sleeping in a tent," Yoochun agrees.

 

"We're sleeping in that abandoned school," Jaejoong adds, pointing at a cluster of trees.

 

Junsu turns, squinting at the woods. "What abandoned school."

 

Off in the distance, he notices his manager loading up the van with a guilty little _can't help you now_ wave.

 

Yoochun drapes an insistent arm around Junsu's shoulder and easily steers him toward a narrow unbeaten path, murmuring, "...don't worry about it."

 

*

 

The sky goes from overcast to shingeki no kyojin as they happen upon an old entrance.

 

The road is unpaved, an assortment of weeds is poking through cracked blocks, dense shrubbery litters one neglected parking spot, and an entire layer of decaying leaves is coating both sides of the decrepit building.

 

"Here," Yoochun says, hesitating.

 

Junsu cocks his head at the schoolhouse, contemplating.

 

There are very few things he's genuinely scared of—his mother, laryngitis, tall people—so he laughs, startling Jaejoong, which in turn makes Yoochun miss a step.

 

"You won't be laughing long," Yoochun promises darkly.

 

Junsu muffles a snort.

 

*

 

Jaejoong is shivering by the dark creepy entrance.

 

Half of the front door is missing, the glass parts lay shattered by his feet, and the stone steps are cracked and separating.

 

"Hyung," Junsu tells him quietly, eyes hella wide, musical training fully engaged, and points at the eerie lobby ahead. "Do you see her."

 

"See who," Jaejoong asks breathlessly, spinning around, "see w—" a cobweb shrouds his face like a net, " _fuck me_."

 

"Calm down," Yoochun says with menace, gripping Jaejoong's wrist. "He's just—" a fat silver spider swoops down a silken thread to reclaim its home from Jaejoong's face, briefly bouncing off of Yoochun's bangs, "FUCKING."

 

They bat at their heads for a frantic moment while Junsu puffs up with a deserved sense of superiority.

 

"Meant to do that," Yoochun clarifies, chest rising and falling with the consistency of a hummingbird.

 

"...just go in," Jaejoong instructs impatiently, fingers twitching around the curve of Junsu's shoulder blade.

 

Amused, Junsu crosses the threshold.

 

The poorly-lit lobby tapers off two steps in; several doors are barricaded by wooden planks, an entire corridor is boarded up, and old chairs have been piled up and left to rust in the corner. Only dust and twigs line the dirty floor; broken picture frames and newspapers piled atop what was once a reception desk.

 

"Which way," Junsu mumbles with a yawn.

 

"Only one way," they say in unison, clearly having practiced, Jaejoong clutching at Yoochun's unstitched sleeve, Yoochun worrying at a snag in Jaejoong's sweater, which seems _un_ practiced—

 

"Up."

 

*

 

The first floor is a mess of stripped classrooms, doors taken off hinges, the sunset spilling beautifully into the neglected halls, dust particles practically reflecting like a rainbow.

 

"Ah," Junsu breathes. "Pretty."

 

Irritated, Yoochun boots him forward.

 

"I think I saw this on Family Outing," Junsu continues obliviously, happily grabbing at the last dying rays of sunshine.

 

"...that's where we got the idea..." Jaejoong mumbles.

 

Yoochun digs his fingers into his ribs.

 

"Pick a room to spend the night in," he commands and chucks a knapsack at Junsu.

 

Finally truly horrified, Junsu wraps his arms around the thing. "We're not sharing a room, are we."

 

"Of course we're sharing a room," Jaejoong grins, already curling into Yoochun's side, matching ugly sweaters threatening to undo themselves.

 

"You're the bravest person I know," Junsu whines at Yoochun, full of regret, "you're Iron Man, you're Harry Potter—"

 

Yoochun grabs him by the elbow and hurls him into an empty classroom.

 

There's still math on the board.

 

"Please," Junsu tries again as Yoochun unpacks a single sleeping bag. "I'll tweet a retraction, I'll give you Toscana—"

 

Jaejoong perks up.

 

"We're staying," Yoochun says and that's that.

 

*

 

Their phones are set to illuminate the room.

 

Junsu considers pointing out this is a bad idea because no one's brought a charger, but now even his shins are cold so he circles Yoochun and frets, "At least let me build a fire."

 

"Let him build a fire," Jaejoong agrees innocently and digs out a can of food from his backpack.

 

So Junsu instinctively looks around for twigs and flint, sort of really getting into it.

 

"...lighter," Yoochun says with a _what year do you think it is_ expression, handing one over.

 

Disappointed, Junsu flicks it until a dangerously-potent spark shoots out, bursting into flame, then wads up some paper to toss into the center of the room.

 

"Hyung," he tells Jaejoong because he's not ready to asphyxiate before touring the domes, "open the window."

 

Jaejoong starts for the window, then recoils.

 

A blanket of dead bug casings and mouse poop shakes off from the windowsill and Jaejoong turns desperate eyes back to Yoochun.

 

"Yoochunnie," he starts sweetly.

 

"You're on your own," Yoochun grins.

 

One of the phones dies.

 

The shadows shift dramatically.

 

And then Jaejoong is fleeing the open window and practically bowling Yoochun over. Together, they tumble to the sleeping bag and Junsu is not here for this so he leaps toward the window, fighting the sudden draft.

 

He leaves the thing partially ajar and pockets the lighter, the promise of a fire forgotten.

 

"Now that we're warm," Yoochun manages reasonably, buried under a pile of Jaejoong, "we can get started."

 

Junsu sighs.

 

*

 

"I just have to walk through it?"

 

Jaejoong grins like a creep, illuminated by his phone. "If you can~"

 

Yoochun joins him, the shadows curling his hair into tiny horns. "We told them to make it realistic."

 

Unconvinced, Junsu glances at the makeshift obstacle course before him. It's just the second floor of the abandoned schoolhouse, cold and dark, decorated with what Junsu can already tell are anatomically-iffy skeletons—parts missing—and moldy straw dolls with matted ancient wigs.

 

Junsu's seen scarier stuff accidentally walking past their old room so he gives both idiots an indulgent nod and sets off.

 

They crowd behind him like children, wind whistling ahead.

 

Junsu is actually kind of jet-lagged, so he lets out a big satisfied yawn as he steps on a crunchy twig.

 

Spooked, Yoochun jumps behind him, knocking a yelping Jaejoong into the wall.

 

Shaking with suppressed laughter, Junsu marches on, making appropriately bored _oohs_ and _ahhs_ at plastic spiders and cotton-webbed corners, wishing they'd at least engaged the staff to stay and jump out of things.

 

On that note, another phone dies.

 

"JESUS FUCK," Yoochun cries out, voice echoing down the hallway.

 

Inspired, Junsu ducks behind a corner and into the deep shadows.

 

Real cobwebs stick to the back of his neck so he crouches down, hands ready.

 

"Wait, where'd he go—" he hears Jaejoong ask, sounding genuinely flustered.

 

"That little—" Yoochun starts, and then Junsu is just reaching out and violently yanking their pantlegs.

 

There's a loud, oddly-harmonized scream from both and then panicked laughter and then they're maniacally sprinting down the hallway, last surviving phone clattering to the ground.

 

Heart pumping wildly, Junsu bolts after them, cheeks sore, eyes adjusting to the streaks of moonlight filtering in through the trees outside, and projects into the darkness, "Wait for me~"

 

Yoochun's loud choked laughter drowns out Jaejoong's breathy cackling and Junsu watches them shamble through one of the fat dolls hanging suspended from the ceiling, ultimately tangling in her greasy wig and desperately pawing at each other for help.

 

Shamelessly amused, Junsu claps his hands, the sound echoing like a crack of thunder.

 

Shouting a panicked _FUCK IT_ , Jaejoong grabs Yoochun's hand and hurtles for the faded emergency exit sign.

 

Biting back a grin, Junsu ducks into a classroom at one end and lopes his way out the other, effectively cutting them off.

 

They crash into him with twin screeches and hastily back away, reckless with fear, laughter shaking the walls.

 

Okay, they're probably going to break a neck or two so Junsu should stop but he hasn't seen his hyungs run like this in years, hasn't been this stupid with them in forever, so he surges after them again, predatory and smug and sort of really happy.

 

But then the noise stops all at once.

 

Junsu freezes in his tracks.

 

A lone shadow skitters across the wall.

 

Outside, the moon dips behind a cloud, plunging the entire floor into complete darkness.

 

Hesitant, Junsu gathers his bearings and ventures a careful, "Yoochunnie."

 

The breeze picks up, ruffling his bangs.

 

"Jaejoongie," he tries, chilled.

 

Something clatters in the distance, sharp, loud.

 

" _Hyung_ ," he warns because there was math on that board and what if there's an actual ghost roaming the halls, quizzing people on quadratic equations.

 

Uneasy but pretty sure the stairwell is a few meters to his left, he gropes blindly along the way, fingers skimming hard concrete until they...

 

...poke into something wet and soft and squishy.

 

A cry dies in his throat as he jumps back, disoriented, and barrels toward the distant missing staircase, future headlines flashing before his eyes: _Kim Junsu dies heroic death saving many kittens_ because his mother will not allow _Kim Junsu literally scared to death by members; leaves behind taller twin_ to go to print—

 

"JUNSU-YAH," someone shouts and it sounds hollow and strange, so Junsu skids to a stop and skedaddles in the opposite direction.

 

There's a softer creepier _Junsu-yah_ ~ ahead and Junsu tries to stop again but his feet carry on without him. He collides with a handrail, misses a step, and tumbles into a thing of plastic spiders. The scent of glue and synthetics fills his nose, mixing with mold and dust, twisting his gut, and there's phantom fingers ghosting over his face—no, wait, that's just his bangs—

 

A warm heavy weight drops atop him and he shrieks and struggles because fuck, he's Dracula, he's _Death_ , he is not afraid of a little—

 

Something pecks him on the cheek.

 

Grossed out, he sits up, the weight lifting.

 

" _Hyung_ ," he accuses in the dark, folding himself on the cold ground, plastic spider digging its fangs into his ass.

 

"But were you scared," Yoochun laughs somewhere above, flipping a lighter.

 

The small space around them brightens.

 

Jaejoong's crouching by Junsu, guarded by a grinning Yoochun.

 

He pats Junsu's shoulder with care and asks, " _Were_ you."

 

"Not until the kissing," Junsu defends, then dusts himself off.

 

*

 

"We could've gone to a real one," Junsu whines once safely back in the tent, shoveling lukewarm beans onto a paper plate like they're in some foreign war movie.

 

Casually, Jaejoong digs out shrink-wrapped kimchi out of his knapsack, ignoring Yoochun's half-impressed _what all did you pack_ stare. "Not the same thing."

 

"Yeah," Junsu agrees, licking the spoon. "Real haunted houses are actually scary." He reevaluates. "...for some, I mean..."

 

"This way's better," Yoochun shrugs.

 

Jaejoong mirrors it. "This way it's just us."

 

Junsu pauses around the spoon.

 

" 'Cause you know," Yoochun says calmly, warming his hands over the grill. "Might be a while before we get to do this again."

 

Next to him, Jaejoong quietly stirs the empty can of beans.

 

...oh.

 

"Seriously," Junsu says, a little too lightly, and scoots closer, chest tight. "How do you get scared by your own prank."

 

Yoochun's features soften.

 

"I wasn't scared," he defends convincingly. "I was acting."

 

Jaejoong rolls his eyes and pushes up a sleeve to show the half-moon indent on his wrist.

 

"...method acting..." Yoochun amends.

 

Jaejoong meets his gaze, eyes warm with affection.

 

Junsu opens his mouth to interject then closes it, satisfied.

 

If he says something dumb like _being without you is scary_ they'll mess with him until they die, probably at 45, so he pokes at the uncooked noodles and leans into Yoochun's shoulder and says fondly, "It was very scary."

 

*

 

"Don't do it," his manager pleads, distraught.

 

Junsu grins at his phone, perched precariously atop a glass suspension bridge, swaying in the breeze, windbreaker puffed with air.

 

 _김준수_ _@1215thexiahtic · Nov 1_

 

_You know who'd be really scared of this..._


	28. jaechun

  * birthday fic for [idrometeora](https://twitter.com/idrometeora), whom I love but who wanted a 'stranded on a deserted island' drabble and I sort of already totally wrote that last year so here's 'stranded on a deserted island only they've just met after joining the same no-name agency and Yoochun is a reclusive stuck-up movie star while Jaejoong is a beloved romcom god and they're not overly fond of each other oh no' AU instead [jaechun]



 

* * *

 

 

" _Never_ ," Yoochun growls, drop-kicking one wrecked shoe into the ocean, " _again_."

 

Soaked, Jaejoong drags a hand down his face, folded under the shade of a colossal palm.

 

"Bond with your new colleagues, they said," Yoochun rants and violently kicks at the sand, wet messy bangs curling over his eyes, "it'll be fun, they said."

 

Jaejoong stares off into the horizon.

 

It _was_ fun.

 

Until Jaejoong drunkenly rounded the corner and smacked into this wall of cranky and sent them both plummeting off the yacht.

 

"They'll be here soon," he says, clutching his head, nostrils rubbed raw by salt.

 

Yoochun pauses.

 

"They didn't even notice we went missing," he points out, incredulous.

 

Which is true, but surely... at least a couple of managers will sober up before Jaejoong commits his first manslaughter.

 

Because, seriously, if Jaejoong had reservations about joining this new agency before, _now_ he is full of regret. But at the time, he figured, hey, his contract was about to expire so why _not_ sign on with some no-name place promising to invest and expand into the acting sector and well, okay, possibly there were also rumors a certain misanthropic actor was considering the agency favorably and the agency did aggressively court him with some weirdly-satisfying _we're family_ spiel and so Jaejoong said yes.

 

Jaejoong was also very drunk.

 

He's unfortunately very sober now.

 

"Jaejoong-ssi," Yoochun says with professional courtesy, loose jeans rolled up unattractively. "Does your phone have signal."

 

Mournfully, Jaejoong holds out his phone.

 

Seaweed clings from its casing.

 

"Right," Yoochun says, then just

 

gives up.

 

Barefoot, he sinks to the sand, sprawling on his back and staring directly into the sun.

 

Jaejoong's personally known the man for less than a week and only from a respectable distance but he feels an instant inexplicable urge to give up, too.

 

"GPS tracking should still work," he says instead and shakes his phone.

 

Yoochun shifts to look at him.

 

"Doesn't matter," he says hollowly. "We're going to die."

 

Jaejoong sneaks a long greedy peek at the guy—he's still too pale from his latest depressing movie—not that Jaejoong's seen it... more than a few times—hair uncut and unkempt as though he's actually been stranded on this deserted island for a month; shoulders wide and straining against a thin wet sweater; mouth set in a defeated pout.

 

"We'll be okay," Jaejoong says with effort, thirsty.

 

Yoochun rolls away, face-planting into the sand.

 

*

 

"With all your action scenes," Jaejoong whines, hauling in a makeshift fishing net ripped from his scandalously expensive mesh t-shirt, "how are you so bad at this."

 

"...do you know what acting is," Yoochun asks condescendingly, yanking on the shirt-net, ankle-deep in water.

 

A pitifully tiny fish spills out of the t-shirt, belly-flopping onto the sand.

 

A nearby seagull gives them a commiserating squawk.

 

Jaejoong brings accusing eyes to Yoochun's horrified face, sun scorching his bare back.

 

Yoochun's features smooth out from outraged to vaguely constipated with practiced ease and he drawls an unexpectedly vicious, "Oh, I'm sorry, I forgot—you don't."

 

Livid, Jaejoong bristles, hungry and offended and listen, his last romcom hit a twenty percent rating which is practically unheard of in this day and age and in that useless time-slot and on that failing network—and moreover, there's nothing wrong with romantic comedies because Jaejoong gets to not only make out with countless beautiful women but win the hearts and affections of viewers everywhere and what does this reclusive prematurely-ahjussying douchehermit and his bleak-heavy projects get to do—

 

...aside from win critical acclaim and Oscar nominations...

 

Fuming, Jaejoong tosses his ruined t-shirt back into the ocean and stalks off.

 

*

 

"You'll die."

 

Jaejoong looks up from a berry he's been contemplating for the past hour.

 

"It's not poisonous," he guesses, feigning indifference, but flicks the thing behind him anyway.

 

A cricket punts it away.

 

"It's definitely poisonous," Yoochun grumbles, shuffling closer, hands in his pockets, sweater around his waist, thin white shirt pressed to the muscles beneath.

 

"If I die," Jaejoong warns petulantly, "you're not allowed to eat me."

 

Yoochun cracks up, then pastes a brooding, jaded expression. "I'm going to go walk the perimeter of the island—"

 

"If you die, can I eat you," Jaejoong interrupts and Yoochun's lips curve briefly, eyes warm, but then he visibly schools his features and mumbles a gruff,

 

"Are you coming with me or what."

 

*

 

"You're so nice to your sunbaes in public," Jaejoong protests, dragging his bare feet through the foamy seashore.

 

Yoochun doesn't argue.

 

"Me," Jaejoong points out, feeling denied what he is rightfully and culturally entitled to, " _I'm_ your sunbae, too."

 

"By two weeks," Yoochun argues, cheeks suspiciously dark.

 

Strangely pleased Yoochun's even aware of Jaejoong's timeline with their dumb agency, Jaejoong thinks on it and says, with poorly hidden sarcasm, "I'm surprised you left your house long enough to sign the contract."

 

"I have a nice house," Yoochun says adorably, one palm turned up in a tiny oblivious gesture.

 

"So do I," Jaejoong says even though no one asked, "but anyway, as your sunbae, I deserve—"

 

Exasperated, Yoochun stops, digs his heels into the sand, and faces Jaejoong with a rude scowl, adding a piercing, "We're the same age."

 

"I've been acting longer—"

 

"TV doesn't count—"

 

"Have you even seen any of my shows," Jaejoong snaps, fed up.

 

"Of course not," Yoochun says dismissively.

 

"Not even the one with the mermaids?" Jaejoong asks, pausing, toes sinking into the sand, sun warm on his back.

 

"You were never in anything with mermaids," Yoochun frowns and ha.

 

"Ha," Jaejoong breathes, satisfaction pooling in his belly. "You've seen my dramas."

 

"...I've read synopses," Yoochun murmurs and quickens his pace, shoulders hunched, throwing a careless, "I can read," over his shoulder.

 

Jaejoong hurries to catch up, grin deepening.

 

*

 

"There has to be a waterfall," he says desperately, feet achy, "there's always one in movies."

 

"Are we in a movie," Yoochun mutters but his mouth is curling up slightly, and Jaejoong likes that, perhaps a stupid amount.

 

He's down to a single pair of fashionably-ripped pants and the silk boxers beneath and Yoochun still has his ugly ahjussi jeans and that nice white shirt and the drying sweater neatly tied around his waist and the sun is gonna set and the weather will probably turn glacial four minutes after that—

 

"We have to find a source of drinking water," Yoochun says, glum.

 

"Why," Jaejoong reminds him, eyeing their thinning shadows with concern, "I thought we were gonna ~die."

 

"Your fangirls wouldn't let me rest in the afterlife if I let you die," Yoochun says somberly and departs for a thick cluster of trees.

 

Jaejoong's heart skips all sorts of beats.

 

It's just the impending hypothermia.

 

*

 

"I got this," Jaejoong boasts, deep inland, surrounded by impressively gigantic foliage.

 

Yoochun watches him for a moment, eyes dark, then shrugs. "Knock yourself out."

 

And then he's gone again, dipping behind some trees and Jaejoong's gonna show that pretentious little asshat.

 

Jaejoong's gonna build them a shelter.

 

*

 

Jaejoong almost dies building the shelter.

 

It was fairly uncomplicated in his head: put some planks together, build Yoochun a fucking castle, earn respect.

 

Outside of his head, he had no planks or nails or internet.

 

So as the sun dips dangerously low on the horizon, obscured by the massive vegetation overhead, Jaejoong drags a heavy fallen tree branch and leans it against a fat trunk, at a decent sturdy angle. Trying not to pant like an ahjussi—because he is just... decades away from that—he props the sides with other dead branches, some conveniently forking at one end, and takes a breather to collect an assortment of big flat leaves, jonesing for a cigarette.

 

"Five-star shelter," he mumbles moodily, weaving a feather-shaped leaf through the neat rows of stripped branches and holy shit, an hour goes by and the shelter solidifies before his eyes, low to the ground and big enough for maybe a large hamster or a small dog but it's kind of really nice and if Jaejoong's phone still worked, he'd take roughly a hundred pictures and get nominated for Best Island Survivor Rookie Designer—

 

Yoochun shuffles into the clearing, eyes zooming in on the structure.

 

"See," Jaejoong brags, wiping at his sweaty forehead, pride warring with some dumb sense of insecurity. "I got this."

 

Yoochun just stares for a long quiet moment, arms full of halved coconuts, silhouetted by the setting sun.

 

"Okay," he concedes with a low growl and Jaejoong's heart tugs sideways.

 

*

 

Jaejoong lights a fire, without drama, flicking a lighter he stole his first day at C-JeS.

 

Yoochun folds himself opposite him, matching lighter poking out of one pocket.

 

Jaejoong hides a grin into his knees and reaches his palms out toward the flame.

 

The fire crackles, tiny sparks scattering into the crisp night air.

 

"They'll be here in the morning," Yoochun promises, unsure.

 

Jaejoong looks up and through the fire to meet Yoochun's eyes.

 

"I'm far too popular not to be rescued by morning," he agrees lightly.

 

Yoochun's mouth twitches.

 

*

 

The fire dies out in the middle of the night.

 

Chilled to the bone, Jaejoong sits up, eyeing the ugly warm sweater Yoochun's curled under.

 

Stretched out, it's almost big enough to be a blanket and the wool has come undone at the collar, fraying at the top row and so Jaejoong finds himself creeping around the half-burnt tinder and the weakly-smoldering ashes and right at Yoochun, perfect _I was trying to fix it_ excuse ready on his lips.

 

Yoochun turns, curling further away, tucking the sweater tighter around him.

 

Pausing, Jaejoong rests his hands in his lap, manly pout tugging his mouth down.

 

"My fangirls..." he starts in warning, voice rough and raspy with the cold.

 

Wordlessly, Yoochun lifts one end of his sweater-blanket, revealing his back for a moment, long enough for Jaejoong to gratefully slip behind him and spoon into the warmth.

 

*

 

Jaejoong wakes up gradually, roused by some hell-bird executing combat maneuvers in the treetops above.

 

But he's pleasantly rested and stiflingly warm, one calf slung over a smooth thigh.

 

Confused, he squints his eyes open and oh, right.

 

Deserted island.

 

With the bear of Busan hibernating in his arms, apparently.

 

Yoochun's eyelashes fan across sun-kissed cheeks, lips wet and pressed to Jaejoong's shoulder, and Jaejoong feels the stupidest urge to get up and chop wood.

 

So he tries to extricate himself with some semblance of dignity but Yoochun makes a tiny uncooperative snuffle and burrows closer.

 

Fine.

 

Fine, Jaejoong can cuddle competitively, too.

 

*

 

"Gross," Yoochun says, peeling Jaejoong off.

 

Sleepy, Jaejoong bats a hand, offering a mild, "You started it."

 

Yoochun rises, disgusted. "I'm... gonna... go check if they... found us."

 

Jaejoong stretches, muscles the right kind of sore, and runs a hand through his hair.

 

Then sits up, eyes wide.

 

His hair.

 

His beautiful newly-bleached hair.

 

It feels like straw, dry and brittle and unhealthy.

 

"The _sun_ ," he rages incoherently, squinting through the tree canopy as though seeking revenge, nightmare scenarios flashing before his eyes—C-JeS finding him bald, the networks rescinding script offers, Yoochun repulsed by him.

 

"Shouldn't have bleached your hair," Yoochun shrugs and takes off without a care.

 

*

 

Jaejoong spends the morning skulking in the shadows, mourning everything.

 

Real panic settles in when he realizes there are uneven tan lines burnt into his hips and no suntan lotion, no protective oils for his hair or skin and both his dermatologist and his agent are going to freak out—

 

Yoochun passes by him in silence, carrying a weird assortment of twigs, and disappears toward the beach.

 

*

 

Jaejoong is hungry and thirsty and futilely trying to fix his phone by the time Yoochun returns, clad only in those ugly jeans and that nice-fitting white shirt, a set of peeled twigs sharpened to a dull point sticking out of his back pocket.

 

He approaches warily, cautiously, face impressively blank, and throws something at Jaejoong's lap.

 

It's soft and fuzzy and the same ugly maroon color as Yoochun's sweater and Jaejoong looks up, uncomprehending.

 

"...where'd you get the beanie," he asks, bewildered, because yeah, it's uneven and misshapen but it's definitely an oversized beanie and where the fuck did Yoochun find a gift shop.

 

"I kinda," Yoochun says and his voice sounds weirdly defensive, "knit."

 

Jaejoong's fingers tighten around the beanie.

 

*

 

The sun's high above him when he stabs at the water, missing a fat silvery fish by a fraction of a second.

 

He grins as it mocks him, oddly content, and steps around the rocks, aiming again. He's down to his boxers, rolled up high to minimize tan lines, beanie securely atop his head, tongue poking out in concentration, bangs falling into his eyes.

 

He's going to catch this stupid fish and he's going to cook it for Yoochun and then they're going to be even because Jaejoong somehow really loves this stupid ugly beanie.

 

He doesn't love being indebted.

 

*

 

"What happened," Yoochun asks patiently, but he's biting his lip, eyes crinkling at the corners.

 

Jaejoong slams the squid at a large flat rock, covered in ink, nauseated by the smell. "Lunch."

 

Cautiously, Yoochun pokes the squid with a stick, surreptitiously glancing up at Jaejoong. "Did you accidentally kill it..."

 

Yes, but it's dead and that's all that matters.

 

"They probably docked in Busan last night," Yoochun says and it almost sounds like a non sequitur except Jaejoong understands perfectly, "so they definitely noticed us missing by now."

 

Jaejoong doesn't care.

 

Jaejoong is going to grill this homicidal squid and serve it to Yoochun and _then_ C-JeS can come rescue them.

 

*

 

"If I had actual spices..." he whines preemptively, handing a tentacle stick to Yoochun, awkward and reluctant.

 

Yoochun scrutinizes the charred floppy thing then tentatively brings it to his mouth.

 

His lips part, tongue darting out, sucking the meat between his teeth.

 

Jaejoong squirms.

 

"Fuck," Yoochun moans, inhaling, eyes narrowing in pleasure, licking at his piece with obscene little noises, " _yeah_."

 

Jaejoong nibbles on his share, smug, flushed, wanting.

 

*

 

C-JeS can come now.

 

Jaejoong stares off into the horizon, hands clasped behind his beanie, feet planted firmly in the sand.

 

He glances to the side where Yoochun is tinkering with a clump of dead plants. He's pulling at the stems under a tree shedding branches, hands coated in brown sticky sap, snapping the dead stalks with quick jerks, biceps flexing under his shirt.

 

Okay, C-JeS can take their time, Jaejoong decides and scampers close, unbidden.

 

"Gonna make rope," Yoochun explains, panting, and Jaejoong kind of definitely wants to bite.

 

With a shaky exhale, Yoochun straightens and Jaejoong watches his left hand work at the buttons of his still ridiculously-immaculate white shirt. He pops one button, then moves down, slowly, focused on the plant fibers piling by his feet.

 

"Wait," Jaejoong says and then he's helping.

 

Unbutton the shirt.

 

"Don't wanna get it dirty," he explains reasonably because there's sap on Yoochun's hands and none on Jaejoong's.

 

"Okay," Yoochun nods, restless.

 

Gently, Jaejoong slips the shirt down Yoochun's shoulders, revealing pale skin below his ribcage, down his biceps and forearms, fingertips brushing warm skin and wrapping around Yoochun's wrists, shirt stuck at the cuffs.

 

He means to say something nice because Yoochun's shoulders are nice—so nice—but what comes out is, "Good thing your roles aren't based on looks," and he means that in a _so now you can tan and I can watch and we can use the shirt as a pillow and never have you wear the thing again_ way but Yoochun rolls his eyes with a rueful, self-deprecating smile and says,

 

"Too bad yours are."

 

*

 

Jaejoong is not a jealous, resentful person.

 

He knows he has a lot—a whole universe—left to learn but he's also not talentless rookie trash and there's a decent filmography under his belt and he's usually humble about it but Yoochun.

 

Yoochun is so wrong about him.

 

And maybe it's part hunger, part island madness, part real fury that he was hypothetically stupid enough to join an agency just because he heard it was courting... someone—not that he joined for that, specifically, he didn't join for... that, but this isn't fair.

 

"At C-JeS," he starts over the fire, after four hours of saying nothing, "we're a family."

 

Yoochun looks at him, shirt and pants decidedly on, expression warm like a glacier.

 

He arches an eyebrow. "I _have_ a family."

 

" _We're_ family," Jaejoong insists, "and while our professional paths may not be... compatible, we should treat each other with respect."

 

Yoochun plucks at the ground.

 

"Whether or not you think our genres are equally valuable," Jaejoong prompts, "doesn't matter when we're stranded on some fucking island."

 

"I don't need you to put our situation into perspective," Yoochun muses dryly and fuck it.

 

Fuck it.

 

"What is your problem," Jaejoong demands, voice softer than he'd like.

 

"You got us into this mess," Yoochun grunts, gaze averted.

 

"YOU held onto ME," Jaejoong snaps back and to be fair, Yoochun did kind of protectively cradle Jaejoong's head when they slammed into the water but that's beside the point, "and that's not what I'm trying to say—"

 

"What _are_ you trying to say," Yoochun says, frustrated.

 

"You HAVE to like me," Jaejoong growls, feverish with shame.

 

Yoochun deflates.

 

"Right here, right now," Jaejoong corrects, shaky, "you have to like me."

 

Jaejoong's not fluent in movie-star but when Yoochun levels him with a curious appreciative stare and offers a succinct _fine_ , he hopes it means _I will_.

 

*

 

"Are you knitting yourself a blanket."

 

Yoochun's visibly fighting a grin, contemplating the wreckage of his sweater.

 

"Knit me one, too," Jaejoong demands, part-serious.

 

"Now that I ~like you," Yoochun announces patronizingly, "what's mine is yours, I guess."

 

Jaejoong ignores the sharp possessive tug twisting his insides, watches Yoochun efficiently unravel the wool, and pulls the beanie down around his reddening ears.

 

*

 

It's a crooked ugly blanket, barely large enough to cover half a man let alone two, but when Yoochun tosses it at Jaejoong's head, it feels overwhelmingly huge.

 

*

 

"I miss twitter," Jaejoong sighs into the crackling fire, curled up on his side and staring at Yoochun's blurry face, blanket twisted around his shoulders.

 

Yoochun doesn't say anything.

 

"...you do know what twitter is, right," Jaejoong asks carefully.

 

On the other side of the fire, Yoochun heaves a long suffering sigh.

 

"Hyung," he says in an almost-whine and Jaejoong's heart stutters in his chest, "not everyone feels the need to post their breakfast for the world at large."

 

...Jaejoong posts dinner pictures but okay.

 

"Ah," he crows, _hyung_ resounding emphatically in his head, "good to know technology has reached the Busan bear, too."

 

Yoochun props himself up on one shoulder, staring. "The what."

 

With a yawn, Jaejoong tucks himself deeper under the blanket. "You're in Busan a lot."

 

After a beat, Yoochun buries his face in his arms, shoulders shaking.

 

"...bear," he says playfully, muffled. " _Hyung_..."

 

"Why'd you even join," Jaejoong asks and it's definitely a non sequitur, but for someone of Yoochun's status and caliber to join an agency that throws family picnics and never answers their emails—

 

Yoochun lifts up his head, face brightened by the glow of a strong fire, eyes intense.

 

"No reason."

 

*

 

The fire goes out while Jaejoong is tossing and turning, sleepless.

 

His skin is dry and he smells like salt and sweat and the sun and he's craving beef and soju and a cigarette, muscles stiff with tension, body distracted and alert.

 

Soon, they'll come get him and he'll shower and indulge all his vices, bury himself between warm welcoming thighs and that's... great... he wants that, of course, but there's something he wants more.

 

"Yoochunnie," he tries, anxiously taste-testing the name.

 

Yoochun's shoulders stiffen, back turned.

 

"Are you cold," Jaejoong asks and sits up, blanket draped over him like a cape.

 

"Yeah," Yoochun says.

 

"Want me to start the fire," Jaejoong asks, rising.

 

There's a moment of silence and then Yoochun shrugs, rolling to his stomach, face hidden.

 

Jaejoong crouches next to him and says, "We should conserve our firewood."

 

The whole island is firewood but Yoochun turns his head slightly and murmurs, "Yeah."

 

Grinning, Jaejoong curls up behind him.

 

*

 

He wakes up to Yoochun's hands on his ass, tangled under the tiny blanket, Yoochun's breath warm on the hollow of his throat.

 

It takes a moment to register the sticky stiffness and for the shame to surface—swallowed by a more urgent sense of surrender—and then Jaejoong is quietly retreating to the ocean to wash his pants, scrub the stain out, and hang them up to dry on the corded rope Yoochun made.

 

*

 

"Here," Yoochun says guiltily and chucks something shiny at Jaejoong.

 

Jaejoong's sitting on a rock, down to just his boxers, mostly-ineffectual spear held loosely in one hand, willing the fish to yield, and Yoochun is giving him a fucking _candy bar_.

 

"Is there a vending machine," Jaejoong blinks, staring at his palm and he would not typically consume candy because candy is not part of his food pyramid but.

 

"I was saving it for an emergency," Yoochun apologizes and claims a spot next to Jaejoong, rolling up his jeans above the knee.

 

"What's the emergency," Jaejoong wonders with concern, watching Yoochun push his sleeves up above the elbow.

 

"...we're still here," Yoochun clarifies slowly. "That's the emergency."

 

Jaejoong pauses.

 

Instead of panic, there's really only... peace, so he tries to paste an understanding smile, and allows, "I think I had a photoshoot in Seoul two hours ago."

 

Yoochun bursts into a blinding honest smile, leaning his elbows on his knees. "So it's safe to eat carbs."

 

Jaejoong's body heats.

 

He lowers the spear and rips open the wrapper, taking a small hungry bite then shoving the rest at Yoochun's mouth.

 

Startled, Yoochun topples over, splashing into the shallows, limbs flailing.

 

And because it's dangerous to walk around in wet clothes, Jaejoong hangs up Yoochun's jeans next to his own, strings the shirt in between, and then they're both down to just boxers.

 

It's nice.

 

*

 

"Seriously."

 

Jaejoong looks up, bent over his legs, coconut squished between the balls of his feet.

 

"What," he defends helplessly, "there's no TV."

 

Yoochun backtracks to watch, boxers slipping down one sharp hipbone. "You're making coffee cups out of coconuts."

 

He sounds grudgingly impressed.

 

Jaejoong beams. "So go find us coffee."

 

*

 

Yoochun finds oysters instead.

 

*

 

There's a quick cloudburst before sunset, pelting the canopy overhead.

 

Rain-soaked, Yoochun glances at the shelter Jaejoong built—expertly, as it's still standing—and their stash of fruits and drinkable water and coconut mugs underneath, and says matter-of-factly, "You'll need to build a bigger one. Maybe a bed, too."

 

Jaejoong breaks out in goosebumps.

 

*

 

"What's that one," Jaejoong asks, pointing at a cluster of stars, sleepy.

 

"Perseus," Yoochun says, sprawled face-down on the sand.

 

"Yoochunnie," Jaejoong whines, bumping his knee against Yoochun's ass, chin tilted up, hands folded in his lap. "Is it really."

 

"Am I a sky map," Yoochun says, grin belying his words.

 

"What's that one," Jaejoong asks again.

 

"Bear of Busan," Yoochun snorts, elbow digging into Jaejoong's thigh.

 

Jaejoong pauses, then says softly, "You have to like me even after we leave."

 

Yoochun's shoulder blades tense.

 

"Okay."

 

*

 

"Because there's no TV," Jaejoong repeats before bed, adding kindling to the fire.

 

"I don't want to reenact my movies," Yoochun whines but sounds resigned, so Jaejoong scoots closer.

 

"My dramas, then."

 

"I haven't seen—" Yoochun argues, flushed.

 

"I'll walk you through it," Jaejoong offers and sloppily sprawls next to Yoochun.

 

He picks the shittiest scenes and makes Yoochun play the girl.

 

*

 

"At this point," Yoochun says mechanically, carving his name into one of the trees, "your shirt washed up on shore and some fangirl scented it and will find you soon."

 

Jaejoong makes a bored noncommittal noise and tells him, running tanned fingers over Yoochun's name, "Add mine here."

 

*

 

The fish—big fat scaly—flops onto their makeshift net, head smacking against a knot in the rope, struggling.

 

Yoochun whoops in disbelief, slinging a strong proprietary arm around Jaejoong's shoulder, grinning, eyes bright and proud and fond.

 

Jaejoong aches.

 

*

 

"Wanna go bed shopping," Yoochun asks in passing, stopping to gently adjust Jaejoong's beanie so his frizzy bangs aren't in the way.

 

Jaejoong dusts a cobweb off Yoochun's boxers and grins at the woods, "Tomorrow."

 

*

 

He wakes up to the sound of some godawful bird imitating a helicopter.

 

He presses closer, consciously fighting a pretty deep sleep coma so he can shamelessly slide between Yoochun's thighs, mentally practicing his future _dunno how this happened... again_ , palms cupping Yoochun's bare chest, chin rubbing against his collarbone, body slick with want, but the damn fucking bird.

 

Frustrated, he squints at the canopy, then gasps.

 

"Helicopter," Yoochun murmurs sleepily, hand slipping to the back of Jaejoong's thigh, boxers shifting until his skin sticks to Jaejoong's, body hardening beneath him.

 

"Bird," Jaejoong corrects apologetically because no, fucking not _now._

 

Yoochun gives a tiny adorable nod and trails his fingertips up and under Jaejoong's boxers, hips grinding slowly, instinctively.

 

"Fuck," Jaejoong groans and then the noise draws closer, cutting through treetops, slicing through foliage, and Yoochun's eyes snap open.

 

For a too-short moment, his grip on Jaejoong tightens almost painfully, possessive and worried and greedy, but then he sits up, shakes Jaejoong off, and says, "Finally."

 

*

 

"Your shirt washed up on shore," his manager babbles, surveying the scene, smothering Jaejoong with suntan lotion.

 

"We didn't know," Yoochun's manager rambles desperately, the bags under his eyes practically dipping down to his mouth. "Sometimes Yoochunnie just hibernates for a week." He wrings his hands. "I didn't know."

 

Awkwardly, Yoochun slips into his old jeans, faded by the sun, stiff from disuse, and huffs, "I don't hibernate—"

 

"I didn't know," his manager repeats, haunted, "I thought you just went home."

 

He frets like an embarrassing parent and Jaejoong may be hella cranky but at least _his_ manager isn't tattling—

 

"And _I_ thought Jaejoongie went home with him," Jaejoong's manager cries nervously, fidgeting with a stack of blankets and feeding them to Jaejoong one by one.

 

Jaejoong's vision blackens.

 

"...why would Jaejoong-ssi go home with our Yoochunnie," Yoochun's manager asks, baffled.

 

Jaejoong lunges, hampered by the blankets.

 

"Because Yoochun-ssi is his favorite actor," Jaejoong's manager says pleasantly, ducking, "that's why he wanted to join C—"

 

"—oh," Yoochun's manager interrupts eagerly, sounding genuinely flattered, "that's cute because _our_ _Yoochunnie_ has Jaejoong-ssi's entire collection on—"

 

"I don't," Yoochun snarls, flustered, cheeks dark, "no, I don't, oh god, seriously—hyung—"

 

"Last year, our Jaejoongie," Jaejoong's manager volunteers recklessly, "made me watch that little sea movie four times in one weekend—"

 

Frozen to his spot, Jaejoong can only extend a mortified, "No, that's—it was... a four-day weekend..."

 

*

 

Yoochun hops into the helicopter first, bundled in an orange C-JeS blanket, coconut coffee mugs swathed under one arm.

 

Jaejoong tugs on his messed-up dirty beanie and nervously follows him in, claiming the seat across.

 

Someone buckles them both in and disappears and then there's the deafening whir of blades so Jaejoong helplessly raises his gaze and yells, "SO YOU NEVER WATCHED MY DRAMAS, HUH."

 

Startled, Yoochun looks up, one leg crossed over the other and poking out of the blanket, and shouts over the noise, "AN EPISODE OR TWO HERE AND THERE."

 

Jaejoong's heart slopes sharply sideways because, yeah, see, "YOU JOINED THIS STUPID AGENCY BECAUSE OF ME."

 

Yoochun freezes, blurting out a troubled, dissenting, "YOU CAN'T PROVE THAT."

 

Jaejoong unbuckles as the helicopter unsteadily lifts off.

 

Off balance, he tips and pitches over Yoochun's seat, hands bracketing Yoochun's wide shoulders; brings his mouth close to Yoochun's, groans, and gives in.

 

"No," Yoochun says firmly.

 

Jaejoong falters, distressed.

 

"I want a bed," Yoochun says and hungrily digs his fingers into Jaejoong's hips, jaw clenching, pupils blown, "so we can destroy it."


	29. homin

  * for [tea-and-taiko](http://tmblr.co/mRD8lYJ4_vynuEl17vC8gpQ) who said, "gross, chocolate, leaves, sing, glasses," and I was like, "...okay, I can totally make... sense of that..." [homin]



 

* * *

 

 

"You knew this day would come," manager-hyung says, grim.

 

"I'm not doing it," Changmin grunts but pockets the box anyway.

 

 

*

 

"We're gonna have to practice."

 

Yunho looks up from his phone, bent weird over a makeup chair. "...which song?"

 

"No," Changmin says, grabs the armrests, swivels the chair around with displeasure, "we have to do the thing."

 

"The thing," Yunho echoes, horror-struck.

 

*

 

 

"Keep your mouth straight," Changmin instructs arrogantly, demonstrating his technique on a long thick pepero stick, "and don't get greedy."

 

Yunho gives him an unimpressed look. "I just watched you eat two boxes in four bites."

 

"That..." Changmin starts, offended, "...was to curb the craving. It's strategy."

 

"Sure," Yunho says, morose.

 

"Just keep your mouth in check," Changmin grumbles and wipes the crumbs off, "and we'll be fine."

 

Unconvinced, Yunho brings a thicker longer pepero to his mouth and gingerly pushes the tip through his shiny pursed lips.

 

Changmin drops the box.

 

"...so listen, hyung, let's maybe practice tomorrow."

 

 

*

 

 

"If you kiss me," Changmin warns, hair flattening in protest, "we're disbanding."

 

"I don't want to kiss you," Yunho bristles, and tentatively bites into a pepero, tilting his chin up with an awkward sulky frown.

 

Grossed out, Changmin slouches across the couch, one knee digging into the cushion, and opens his mouth.

 

Reluctantly, he lurches forward.

 

"—I can't do this," Yunho recoils.

 

The pepero flops to his lap, melting against the edge of his sweater.

 

Changmin manages to screech to a halt before he slams into Yunho's dumb mouth.

 

"I'm not trying this on TV before we _rehearse_ it," he grits out, trying to reset his jaw. "Hyung. We're professionals."

 

Contrite, Yunho gives a solemn serious nod.

 

"You're right," he reassures himself, staring at one determined fist, "I've kissed worse things."

 

Indignant, Changmin stabs a pepero into his mouth and shoves his face at Yunho.

 

With a sharp inhale, Yunho steels himself, touching his lips to the other end.

 

His jaw clenches.

 

His eyes slant.

 

Those thick dark eyelashes fan across his cheeks.

 

"... _tomorrow_ ," Changmin lashes out, violently cracks the pepero with his teeth, and bolts.

 

*

 

"We have a week left," Yunho tells him in the car, sleepy.

 

Changmin groans.

 

*

 

 

"Take five," the photographer calls out and Changmin grabs Yunho, drags him into the bushes, and shoves him at a tree.

 

"Just keep still," he commands, frustrated, and peels the pepero out of its foil, "I'll do all the work."

 

Stunned, Yunho parts his lips.

 

A leaf flutters onto his perfect dumb hair.

 

Changmin hesitates.

 

"Don't move," he cautions and brings the stick, chocolate side up, to Yunho's mouth.

 

Yunho opens up and wraps his lips around it.

 

Flustered, Changmin brackets him against the tree... for balance... then nudges at the non-chocolate end.

 

He cuts into the first three centimeters, teeth clacking, and inhales, coat unbearably hot.

 

Yunho fidgets.

 

" _Stay_ ," Changmin murmurs around the thing and moves.

 

"WHERE DID YOU GO, I SAID FIVE MINUTES—"

 

Startled, Changmin jolts, roughly slamming forward, losing balance.

 

Yunho yanks his face to the side, instinctively catching Changmin by his lapels.

 

The pepero clips Changmin's cheek like a shank.

 

 

*

 

 

"Fuck it," Changmin greets, laden with shopping bags.

 

"...come in," Yunho nods, somber.

 

 

*

 

 

"It's easier," Changmin reasons desperately, "if you lie down."

 

"What."

 

"Just lie down," he argues, gesturing at the floor, and toes off his shoes.

 

"What."

 

"If you have nowhere to move your head," Changmin explains hotly because how is Yunho not getting this, "it'll be easier to do it right. It's basic physics, hyung."

 

"Changminnie," Yunho says patiently, hooking an arm around Changmin's elbow and guiding him back out, "Hyung has to get up really early tomor—"

 

Changmin steps on his slipper, planting his feet firmly on a Lego Movie rug. "Two days."

 

Yunho pauses.

 

"Fine," he concedes, "but not on the floor."

 

*

 

 

"I don't like this," Yunho says, voice low, bangs pinned above his forehead, the rest of his hair curling under his ears, glasses slipping down his nose. "Why can't I be on top."

 

Changmin dismisses him with an impatient _there there_ noise then unceremoniously shoves Yunho onto the mattress.

 

" _Because_ , hyung," he says very reasonably but can't remember what comes after so he sits down next to Yunho and nervously grabs his stiff shoulders.

 

Yunho squirms. "...the pepero..."

 

Oh, right.

 

Absentmindedly, Changmin scrambles to rifle through the bags and returns triumphant, carrying a single battered pepero stick.

 

Surely they won't need more than one.

 

"We can do this without touching," Changmin offers enthusiastically, biting into the stick, "I promise."

 

He scoots back on the mattress, leaning over Yunho's chest, feet on the floor, hands on the blanket, and clumsily tries to center the stick like a compass.

 

He pokes Yunho's glasses.

 

"Changminnie," Yunho pouts, removing the glasses to rub at one eye, "I'm starting to feel concerned for your future wife."

 

Flushed, Changmin catches his wrist.

 

The glasses tumble to the side.

 

Burning with a competitive kind of determination, Changmin aims his mouth at Yunho, pepero clamped between his lips.

 

Yunho accepts.

 

His pulse speeds up beneath Changmin's thumb and then he's moving his mouth up even though Changmin told him not to.

 

"Good?" Yunho says around the pepero, through his teeth, neck muscles straining.

 

And because it's basic physics, Changmin closes the last five millimeters and locks his mouth over Yunho's.

 

 

*

 

 

On National Pepero Day, manager-hyung says cheerfully, "No, they canceled the segment, you're gonna draw animals instead."

 

"What," Changmin complains, getting in his way on one side, "why."

 

"No," Yunho agrees, crowding manager-hyung on the other, "we _want_ to do it now."

 

Manager-hyung pauses in the hallway, unhappy.

 

"We practiced really hard," Yunho offers adorably.

 

"...you practiced... eating candy..."

 

"Our hard work shouldn't go to waste," Changmin lectures pointedly, slipping a box out of his pocket.

 

 

*

 

 

On National Pepero Day, Changmin slants his mouth over Yunho's.

 

"Oh no," Yunho apologizes hastily to the MC, repositioning Changmin nearer, "wait, we can do better, we practiced."

 

"...of course..." the MC deadpans, staring at her mic.

 

Stubborn, Yunho curls long fingers into Changmin's arms and puts his mouth on Changmin's mouth.

 

"...Yunho-ssi," the MC calls out uncomfortably, "...the pepero...?"

 

*

 

Backstage, manager-hyung spreads his arms to the ceiling, wrinkles deepening, hair thinning, and howls an incoherent, " _Changmin_."

 

Calm, Changmin wipes at his swollen lips and tosses out a flippant,

 

"You knew this day would come."


	30. jaechun

 

* * *

 

 

 

"Congratulations!" Jaejoong says, overwhelmed with pride, arms tangling around Yoochun.

 

"Thanks," Yoochun says, eyes pleasantly narrowed, mouth curled in a tiny smug smile, fingers digging into Jaejoong's waist deep enough to damage a kidney.

 

"Um..." Junsu says, then closes his mouth.

 

 

*

 

 

"Oh," Jaejoong breathes into the phone. "I'm sorry, Siwannie. Yoochunnie just picks... better... projects?"

 

"...he has good taste," Siwan agrees sourly.

 

 

*

 

 

"Isn't that someone you acted with," Junsu asks thoughtfully.

 

Jaejoong looks up from his timeline with a confused sleepy yawn. "What."

 

"Jisung-hyung," Junsu says and turns his phone Jaejoong's way. "Yoochun's up for an award against him."

 

"Is he," Jaejoong says conversationally and takes a long sip of his americano.

 

 

 

*

 

 

"Ah... you're both nominated in the same category again..." Jaejoong says kindly, "Siwannie, I'm so sorry."

 

"Yes, well," Siwan mumbles cantankerously, signal fading, "I haven't lost yet."

 

 

*

 

 

"Yoochunnie," Jaejoong greets urgently, crushing him into the door, fingers cupping his flushed sleepy face, hipbones pressing into warm borrowed pajamas with a soft happy sigh, "congratulations."

 

"Thanks," Yoochun murmurs, groggy, and locks his arms around Jaejoong's waist like a pair of magnets.

 

 

*

 

 

"You don't think it's weird," Junsu asks after their plane takes off.

 

"Of course it's weird," Jaejoong tells him helpfully, glancing across the aisle at a napping Yoochun, "but the air creates this vacuum in the wings which keeps the plane from crashing, I looked it up."

 

"...the awards," Junsu amends, annoyed.

 

"Oh," Jaejoong smiles brightly. "Nah."

 

"...well," Junsu leans on one elbow and stares out the window, allowing a sensible,"...coincidences happen."

 

Jaejoong gives him a tiny pleased nod.

 

"Coincidences happen."

 

 

*

 

 

"We should have a party," Jaejoong says when Yoochun wakes up.

 

The plane touches down.

 

"Wha," Yoochun yawns, curling into the neighboring seat, half-sprawled over Jaejoong, buckled in all wrong.

 

"For your awards," Jaejoong explains patiently, hips pinned under Yoochun's shoulders, arms slung over him like a seat belt.

 

"Hyung," Yoochun starts, warm, modest, coy, "that's not necessary."

 

"You're right. Perhaps I should meet with Jisung-hyung instead," Jaejoong contemplates aloud, carding his fingers through Yoochun's hair with absentminded concern, "express my condolences and stuff."

 

Yoochun digs his chin into Jaejoong's knee, aggressively rubbing his cheek against ripped well-worn jeans.

 

"A party is fine, hyung."

 

*

 

"Who," Yoochun says airily.

 

Junsu narrows one eye, scrolling through his phone. "Yihan-hyung. You're nominated against Yihan-hyung."

 

Dismissive, Jaejoong shakes his head and takes a speculative sip of his coffee. "Ah. Bound to happen in this industry."

 

"Sure," Junsu grouses, "but don't you think it's—"

 

"It's very unfortunate, yes," Jaejoong says sadly, then pats Yoochun's knee with an appreciative huff. "Yoochunnie, we should get you something nice if you win again."

 

Smug, Yoochun averts his eyes, cheeks glowing, and shrugs,

 

"Okay."

 

*

 

 

_16:31 are you serious_

 

Jaejoong sniffles at his phone, then dials Junsu, rubbing at his runny nose. "What."

 

"Are you seriously considering a project with Jinhyuk," Junsu demands incredulously. "For serious."

 

Jaejoong adjusts his sunglasses and whines, "It sounds like an okay drama."

 

"...hyung," Junsu says, sounding exasperated, "I sent you—my manager and your manager and Yoochunnie's manager sent you the article."

 

Jaejoong sniffles again. "What article."

 

"THE ONE WHERE YOOCHUN SAYS HE WANTS TO DO A DRAMA WITH YOU. FOR THE THIRD TIME."

 

"I didn't read it," Jaejoong pouts, stretching his legs across the aisle as the plane clips its wing on a luggage shuttle.

 

"...please read it."

 

*

 

_07:36 did you read it_

 

"Junsu," Jaejoong grins into the phone, high on quality caffeine, "they have horses in Vienna."

 

"That's nice," Junsu says vacantly, "they have them in Thailand, too. Please do a drama with him."

 

Jaejoong pauses, licks the cream off his spoon, and leans back in his chair.

 

"He didn't say my name, Junsu-yah," he says darkly.

 

"What."

 

"That first time he won an award," Jaejoong complains, emotional, and taps his fancy coffee mug with resentment, "he didn't say my name."

 

There's a brief silence and then, "...oh my god." There's another, longer silence and a frantic high-pitched, "Oh my god, you're doing this on purpose."

 

"My _name_ , Junsu-yah," Jaejoong insists, salty.

 

"Hyung," Junsu pleads, sounding distraught, "please. Please. He's going to destroy the whole industry, you have to stop, everyone's gonna hate him, he's going to whine to _me_ and he's going to ESCALATE, and there's no more room in his house for all those—"

 

"PONY," Jaejoong shouts at the street, awed, and hangs up.

 

 

*

 

 

"I was thinking," Yoochun greets, sulking on Jaejoong's couch in the dark, "we should do a drama together."

 

Jet-lagged, Jaejoong turns on the light, toes off his shoes, and yawns, "Why."

 

Yoochun blinks, frozen.

 

"...because it would be a good learning experience..." he manages eventually, nonchalantly unraveling a decorative cushion.

 

Jaejoong plops down next to him, shedding his jacket. "What if I already accepted a new project."

 

The room cools considerably.

 

" _Who_ ," Yoochun asks, jaw clenched.

 

"Jinhyuk," Jaejoong taunts shamelessly, and curls up on the couch, head pressed to Yoochun's lap. "I'll work hard, Yoochunnie."

 

Wordlessly, Yoochun buries his fingers in Jaejoong's hair, ungentle. "No."

 

Jaejoong opens one eye. "I shouldn't work hard?"

 

Yoochun's fingers pause.

 

"I'm better," he murmurs petulantly.

 

Jaejoong hides a grin, lecturing, " _I_ can say that; you can't."

 

Voice low, rough, growly, Yoochun says, "So say it."

 

Amused, Jaejoong shifts to look. "You're better, Yoochun-ah."

 

And then he's on the floor, face-down on his soft fuzzy rug, a solid restless weight straddling his ass.

 

"Wha," he babbles as Yoochun presses into him, hard, "wha's that—oh my god, Yoochun—"

 

"I told you I wanted to do a drama with you," Yoochun says, sounding embarrassed, "I told the world."

 

Awash with satisfaction, Jaejoong smiles into the rug. " _Good_."

 

Yoochun freezes.

 

"Fuck," he groans, losing steam, and drapes himself over Jaejoong's back like a broken heater. "Is this about KBS."

 

Jaejoong squirms.

 

Yoochun brings his mouth to Jaejoong's cheek, hair tickling his temple. " _Four_ _years ago_?"

 

Jaejoong shrugs one apathetic shoulder. "Maybe."

 

Yoochun laughs softly and rolls off, sprawling next to Jaejoong, obvious fondness brightening his eyes. "All of your costars hate me."

 

Jaejoong turns on his side to stare. "They really do."

 

"You could easily avoid this by—" Yoochun starts, disgruntled.

 

Jaejoong tangles their feet together.

 

"And if we're nominated against each other..." he questions mildly, fidgeting with a loose rug thread.

 

Stubbornly, Yoochun schools his features, voice honest, "I want to do things _with_ you, not against you."

 

"Four years ago—" Jaejoong starts with a troubled petty whine, meeting Yoochun's eyes.

 

Yoochun's gaze darkens.

 

"Not with Jinhyuk, hyung," he warns, uncaring, and shifts for a better look, sharp, brooding, earnest. "Your last project should be mine."

 

"And your only acknowledgment should be me," Jaejoong vows, equally serious, and tries to tentatively touch his fingertips to Yoochun's chest.

 

"Yeah," Yoochun agrees and lets him.

 

 

*

 

 

"I'd like to sincerely thank our Yoochun-ssi," Jaejoong says into the mic with a humble shy smile, clutching the bouquet, "for his endless guidance and care throughout our project—"

 

 

*

 

 

"And most importantly, thank you to our Jaejoong-ssi," Yoochun says into the camera with a playful secretive grin, adjusting the bouquet, "for allowing me to share one last project with him—"

 

 

*

 

 

"Um," Junho says, staring at the TV and gesturing incredulously at Junsu.

 

Junsu sighs.


	31. mixed

  * "Yunho and Yoochun arguing they could ~totally pull off being semes" [homin, jaechun, slight 2u]




 

*

 

"...but that would require moving on your part, Yoochunnie," Jaejoong says over FaceTime, smug.

 

Yoochun scowls into his coffee cup, phone angled poorly.

 

"Do you..." Yunho starts and takes a careful sip of his own coffee, pressed next to Yoochun in the booth, eyebrows raised in mild surprise, eyes politely averted, "not... usually move... during..."

 

Changmin's voice echoes through Yunho's phone with a sharp bark-cackle.

 

Unamused, Yoochun squints at both phones and launches into an offended, "Listen, I was voted most virile among the cast of—"

 

"Yeah, but to be fair," Changmin points out casually, signal steady, "you were up against four sixty-year-olds."

 

Yunho takes another, less composed, sip, mouth twitching.

 

"Fine," Yoochun shrugs, sliding a stack of freshly-printed dōjinshi at Yunho. "But just so you know," he grumbles, tapping his fingers to the giant pink _dbsk_ _orgy_ scrawled in soft cursive katakana, "you're the uke now, too."

 

"That's ridiculous," Yunho waves him off and lowers his coffee cup, pinkie finger outstretched daintily. "I'm a man."

 

"...and what am I..."

 

"They've never made me the uke before," Yunho says flippantly, paging through the first dōjinshi with certainty. "They wouldn't suddenly—"

 

He turns the page.

 

"Oh," he says. "I'm the uke."

 

There's a long uncomfortable silence.

 

"... _who are you bottoming to, hyung_..." Changmin demands with barely restrained fury, phone vibrating from the force of his tone.

 

Anticipatory, Jaejoong leans in, face creepily deformed by the screen, and whines, "Show me yours, Yoochunnie~"

 

Yoochun tilts the phone away, spiteful.

 

"Yoochunnie, I'm a man," Yunho tells Yoochun with sudden desperate need, shoving an anatomically-questionable page in Yoochun's face. "I'm not like you."

 

Deadpan, Yoochun slowly bats the page away. "...yeah, I'm a man, too."

 

"I could top," Yunho defends, innocently passionate, and clamps long strong fingers around both of Yoochun's shoulders, "I _would_ top—"

 

"Me, too," Yoochun argues ardently, meeting Yunho's eyes with purpose, "I would top so hard they'd give me an award for it."

 

"...what," Jaejoong says, screen blurring as he pitches forward to stare.

 

"I would top harder," Yunho insists, a determined gleam in his eye, hair bristling, "I would top so hard they'd give me _all_ the awards for it."

 

"...can you maybe stop saying that word," Changmin grunts, signal suspiciously distorted.

 

"You've seen me dance," Yunho continues persuasively, "how could anyone see that and think—"

 

"...look, if dancing was any indicator, then Yoochun—" Jaejoong starts with an unimpressed pout but Yoochun promptly mutes the speaker.

 

"Hyung," he tells Yunho somberly, nodding, "you have seme hands."

 

"I have seme hands," Yunho agrees gratefully, patting Yoochun's shoulder with a commiserating sulk. "And your voice, Yoochunnie, is all seme."

 

"My voice is definitely all seme," Yoochun growls low then offers an encouraging, appreciative, "and your endurance, hyung. Your _stamina_. Total seme."

 

"My endurance," Yunho agrees, eyes sparkling with delight, "My stamina."

 

"...okay," Changmin cuts in worriedly, phone buzzing, "... _time to go, hyung_."

 

"And you're older and taller," Yoochun adds, genuine, "so hypothetically, if you weren't straight, you'd make a great seme. Hyung. You'd be the best seme."

 

"You, too, Yoochunnie," Yunho says warmly, digging his fingers in deeper.

 

"HYUNG," Changmin warns, icy. "LEAVE."

 

Calm, Yunho ends the call.

 

"Hypothetically," Yoochun says after a brief contemplative pause, hands returning to Yunho's wrists. "I mean. If I weren't completely straight. I wouldn't be opposed to. Not. Topping, maybe."

 

"Yeah," Yunho says, equally thoughtful, Yoochun's shoulders back beneath his fingers. "My masculinity is... not threatened, so. I wouldn't be opposed. Either."

 

On Yoochun's muted phone, the screen flashes a neon post-it note angled awkwardly at the camera, focused on Jaejoong's angrily scribbled, _COMING OVER STAY RIGHT THER E D ONT DI ANYTAGH STUPID_

 

Yoochun glances at the phones.

 

"Well," he summarizes with a lopsided grin, powering them both off. "That was fun."

 

Amused, Yunho reaches for his neglected coffee cup and clinks it to Yoochun's in a quietly pleased salute. "So which one's gonna get here first."

 

Yoochun's lips curl.

 

"Mine," he says confidently.

 

Visibly competitive, Yunho leans back to observe the door, features twisted with kitten-like satisfaction,

 

"Doubt it."


	32. mixed

  *  three-sentence prompt fills (mostly... not... three-sentences)



 

* * *

 

  * Jaejoong's birthday [jaechun]



 

Once a year, Jaejoong can have anything he wants.

 

Once a year, it's Yoochun.

 

It's leasing a relationship, Junsu thinks, not owning one, but it's none of his business because it's been a decade and he's _still_ recovering, desperate to repress that one time he walked by their room and saw Yoochun hold up a shirt in each hand and grin, "Which one do you want for your birthday," and then stupidly hung around to watch Jaejoong pause for a startled greedy beat and point at Yoochun's chest, "This one, the one in the middle, Yoochun, I want _this_."

 

* * *

 

  * Jaejoong forgets which one he is and says he's afraid of heights [jaechun]



 

During an early-morning interview, fresh off of a night-shoot, a reporter asks which one of them is acrophobic and Jaejoong easily offers, "Ah. Me—" but "—I thought it was me," Yoochun points out, contemplative, and turns to meet Jaejoong's eyes.

 

Creepy, they stare at each other for an excessive forty-five seconds with identical soft sleepy smiles.

 

"Haha," Junsu rushes to explain with a twitch, blocking them from the camera, " _both of them_." 

 

* * *

 

  * Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy AU [jaechun]  




 

"Pack a towel," Jaejoong calls from the bedroom.

 

Yoochun pokes his head out of the bathroom, toothbrush hanging from his mouth, "Why."

 

"There's something I want to show you," Jaejoong grins, and to Yoochun's unspoken _what_ , Jaejoong offers _the universe_.

 

* * *

 

  * prince/princess AU [homin]



 

"You're fucking late," Changmin greets from his tower, arms crossed, eyes narrowed, mouth set in an unfriendly glower.

 

"...your hair is really short," Yunho defends with a pout and dismounts his dainty mare, braids tangling around his shoulders, "I had to go find so many ladders..."

 

"I can't fucking believe a prince like me's getting rescued by someone like _you_ ," Changmin complains on the way down but gratefully mounts up, tucks himself behind Yunho, and rests his chin on Yunho's shoulder, mumbling, "...tell your stupid horse to slow down..."

 

* * *

 

  * Changmin's friend drags him to meet her boyfriend Yunho "you're gonna fall in love with him!" AU [homin]



 

"You're gonna love him _so_ hard," Jinhee promises, violently wrenching Changmin out of the car.

 

"Sure," Changmin mumbles because yeah, this is totally on the agenda for tonight: third-wheeling on a freezing Friday night at some shitty kindergarten park—

 

"Yunho-yah!" Jinhee shrieks, oblivious, and skips off ahead, aiming for the poorly-lit swings, hauling Changmin along like a sad sack of potatoes.

 

"Jinhee-ssi," Yunho returns cheerfully, swing grinding to a stop.

 

"This is our Changminnie," Jinhee explains, mercilessly propelling Changmin forward. "I hope you two can get along~"

 

Yunho—folded atop one of the swings and sucking on a popsicle in subzero temperatures—looks up and grins, eyes slitting to a warm friendly mess, oversized wool beanie framing his flushed face.

 

"...no," Changmin says and backpedals, prying Jinhee's fingers off his jacket.

 

Unrepentant, Jinhee launches him at the other swing with the force of an actual barbarian. "Play nice."

 

"I always play nice," Yunho says smoothly, clearly amused as Changmin stumbles and misses his footing, sprawling belly-first over the swing. Yunho palms Changmin's back, firm and steady and weirdly intimidating for a kindergarten teacher, and says, "Jinhee-ssi's told me all about you."

 

 

*

 

On Saturday, Changmin says, completely disinterested, "I'll give you a ride."

 

Jinhee hesitates at the door. "...no need..."

 

" _I'll give you a ride_."

  
*

 

"Oh," Yunho greets, poking at the tabletop grill in surprise, "you brought Changmin-ssi..."

 

"...he brought himself..."

 

"It's barbecue," Changmin reasons and wedges himself between them.

 

*

 

"NO," Jinhee shouts, holding out a palm in warning as Yunho stupidly reaches for Changmin's plate, "he doesn’t share his food with—"

 

Yunho pauses, chopsticks frozen above a slice of Changmin's pork belly.

 

Indignant, Changmin stabs his chopsticks at the meat and fussily slides some to Yunho's plate.

 

"—anyone..."

 

*

 

"You have to work today," Changmin offers magnanimously, shoving one arm through his jacket, car keys clutched in a white-knuckled hand, "so I’ll go meet him instead."

 

Jinhee blinks. "...it’s Sunday."

 

*

 

"This is weird," Jinhee complains, disgruntled.

 

Changmin holds her hand tighter because Yunho was holding it a moment ago and Changmin's not trying to indirectly hold hands with Yunho; he's just helping a friend keep warm.

 

"Yeah," he agrees.

 

*

 

They pull into the parking lot and Jinhee sighs dreamily.

 

"He's so perfect," she says and bites her lip with a needy little moan—Yunho's substituting for a tree off in the distance, swarmed by disgusting little brats—then catches sight of Changmin's face and hastily adds, "I mean. No. He's. Terrible? He can't cook—"

 

"There's takeout."

 

"—and he's really messy—"

 

"I don't hate cleaning."

 

"—and he thought Paris was a country—"

 

"Maybe I should take him there."

 

*

 

"Okay, I should've phrased it better," Jinhee says desperately, wrestling Changmin back into the car, "please love him less hard—"

 

* * *

 

  * Yunho and Yoochun end up in the same group after enlistment [2u]



 

(We're pretending Yoochun's gonna be conscripted into active duty.)

 

*

 

It's because Yunho doesn't want special treatment and because his sergeant translates that as _please give me special treatment_ and because fuck everything, that's why.

 

"I thought you quit," Yoochun greets warily, rounding the building.

 

Yunho drops his cigarette.

 

*

 

"Seriously."

 

"Seriously," Yunho agrees numbly, staring at the empty barracks.

 

"Just you and me?" Yoochun repeats for the fourth time, uncomprehending.

 

Yunho falters.

 

"Yeah. Just you and me."

 

*

 

Profoundly uncomfortable, Yunho makes his bed as instructed, fucks up the corners, rips his undershirt, laces his boots up all wrong.

 

"So we're just not gonna talk about it," Yoochun asks calmly, bending down to redo Yunho's laces.

 

Yunho stands still.

 

"Nope."

 

*

 

"I wanna talk about it," Yoochun says at 3:00 AM, voice echoing across the barracks.

 

Yunho burrows deeper under the covers.

 

*

 

"I don't," Yoochun pants, shirt wet, cheeks flushed, palms resting on his knees, "like this."

 

Yunho slows down to a jog, sweaty, and he doesn't mean to grin but they've only run two laps and Yoochun's soul is noticeably in the process of leaving his body, so Yunho instinctively slings an arm around Yoochun's shoulder and hauls him up with an unrelenting, "Eight more."

 

*

 

"This isn't gonna be edible," Yoochun points out, peeling the potato down to a tiny misshapen nub.

 

Yunho's huddled next to him by a large metal pot, rickety stools beneath them cracking ominously, so he examines the potato carcass in his own palm, peeler bent. "Mine's worse."

 

Yoochun glances at Yunho's hand.

 

"Yeah," he grins playfully, "that's worse."

 

*

 

Yunho moves one bed closer.

 

*

 

"We're gonna have to talk about it eventually," Yoochun murmurs awkwardly, shuffling the deck.

 

Patiently, Yunho accepts his cards. "No."

 

"Hyung," Yoochun says and Yunho's ears perk up, "we'll be here for a while. Two years is a long time."

 

Yunho swaps out three of the cards and keeps a pair of kings.

 

"Six is longer."

 

*

 

Yoochun moves one bed closer.

 

*

 

"Kill it."

 

Yunho bites his lip, mouth twitching. "This is a _reconnaissance_ mission."

 

"Please kill it," Yoochun amends, freaking out by a thick lush tree, spiderweb the size of a cow blocking his path.

 

"I can't even see it," Yunho concedes, adjusting his helmet to hide a smile.

 

"What," Yoochun yelps, "what—it was here just a second ago—where did it _go_ —hyung—HYUNG—”

 

Yunho cuts through the spiderweb.

 

*

 

Yunho moves two beds closer.

 

*

 

"Yoochun," Yunho says mournfully and Yoochun startles, "I can't find my socks."

 

Yoochun snorts and goes back to folding laundry.

 

"Yoochun," Yunho says again, pouting. "Yoochun."

 

"Don't wear it out," Yoochun says under his breath, lips curling.

 

Yunho grins. “Yoochun.”

 

*

 

"Hyung," Yoochun whines, dangerously plaintive, "I'll trade you two of my weekends."

 

Yunho curls around his contraband ramyun with an exaggerated protective huff. "Three weekends and your strawberry rations."

 

"...wait, what, we get strawberries..." Yoochun wonders absently, then drifts closer with a pitiful hungry sniff.

 

"Three weekends, Yoochun-ah," Yunho insists, firm.

 

"Two," Yoochun argues, presumably pausing to process the endearment, and bends to wrap his mouth around Yunho's chopsticks, offering a muffled, hopeful, "and I'll find your socks."

 

*

 

"Yoochunnie!" Yunho frowns, stalking across the infirmary.

 

The nurse puts an arm out to block him. "It's just a minor flare-up."

 

Half-hidden by the curtain, Yoochun guiltily averts his eyes.

 

*

 

"...you got a whole week off," Yunho summarizes suspiciously, palming the back of Yoochun's head, buzzcut tickling his wrist.

 

Yoochun cracks up and lets Yunho help him into the barracks.

 

"A week and a half," he laughs obnoxiously, hand around Yunho's waist.

 

Relieved, Yunho tries to school his features. "That's cheating."

 

"Hyung," Yoochun says pretentiously, gesturing at himself with an air of smug satisfaction. " _Acting_."

 

*

 

During his leave, Yunho moves Yoochun's bed four cots closer.

 

*

 

"You wanna talk about it," Yunho asks at 3:00 AM, one bed over, arm hanging off the mattress, knuckles brushing the ground.

 

Yoochun yawns into his pillow, arm slipping out of the blankets, fingers knocking against Yunho's.

 

"Nah."

 

* * *

 

  * Jaechunsu in the Harry Potter world



 

"IS THIS ONE TAKEN."

 

Sleepy, Jaejoong glances up from his untouched pile of candy, train rumbling under his feet.

 

The boy at the door doesn't wait for an answer.

 

"I was playing hide-and-seek with my brother," he explains instead and carelessly climbs onto the bench seat across from Jaejoong, legs too short to reach the ground, "but one of us got lost. Definitely not me."

 

With a strained smile, Jaejoong raises an unsympathetic eyebrow and goes back to carefully unwrapping his trading cards.

 

"I'm Junsu," the boy announces, shamelessly helping himself to Jaejoong's candy.

 

Jaejoong opens his mouth to object, but Junsu greedily crams two whole chocolate frogs down his throat and chokes.

 

The door slides open with a loud bang, sudden draft ruffling Jaejoong's bangs.

 

"Sorry," a boy greets, angrily tossing cage after cage into Jaejoong's compartment, "I couldn't breathe."

 

The door shuts behind him, feathers flying.

 

Four caged cats and an owl blink up at Jaejoong.

 

"Wow," Junsu says disapprovingly, face smeared with chocolate, "rude."

 

* * *

  

  * YC reacts to JJ's spy kiss scenes [jaechun]



 

**GROUP** : **ALL MINE**  
3 chat participants  
  
Yeti 21:39: oh you're  
Yeti 21:39: you're kissing already okay

Yeti 21:41: i mean it's not at all central to the plot but okay  
Yeti 22:13: wow again  
Yeti 22:13: sure that’s totally necessary  
Yeti 22:14: kinda early for all this mouth action but what do i know  
Yeti 22:15: i only kissed once and won eight awards  
Yeti 22:15: less is more hyung  
Yeti 22:29: okay come on seriously that's just excessive  
Yeti 22:37: she's a spy too right  
Yeti 22:45: oh okay more kissing alright  
Yeti 22:45: i guess you gotta establish the relationship is solid  
Yeti 22:45: before you break it  
Yeti 22:46: because she's a spy toothbrush  
Yeti 22:46: too*  
Yeti 22:46: autocorrect but she's definitely a fucking toothbrush  
Yeti 22:46: SPY* fuck is your mouth fucking SEWN to hers hyung  
Yeti 22:46: are there fucking stitches do you need a fucking doctor

 

Ass Goals 22:47: Yoochunnie, please turn it off.

 

Yeti 22:48: i can't find the remote

 

Ass Goals 22:49: I meant your phone.

 

_[ Yeti is typing... ]_

 

_[ Ass Goals has left the chat ]_

 

* * *

 

  * Junsu and Yunho's squads are dancing rivals [hosu]



 

Yunho's people meet under the overpass every Thursday at 7:00 PM.

 

Every Thursday at 7:05 PM, Junsu's people throw a fit.

 

"We were here FIRST," someone rages, smacking their snapback to the grass in outrage.

 

"Ah—can't we can share," Yunho offers amicably, towering over everyone.

 

"No," Junsu bristles, "but we can have a _dance-off_.”

 

"...is this a movie..." Yunho starts with innocent bafflement, but Junsu's already stripping his jacket off and pulling his pants up and cracking his shoulders. "Oh. You were serious. Okay."

 

"Music," Junsu beckons, and someone somewhere cues up a fast dance track.

 

"Wow," Yunho says, impressed, looking around for cameras, "no, uh, this really feels like—"

 

Heedless, Junsu snaps his hips to a furious beat, popping off into a free spin, open-turns into a low slide as though his crotch is mowing the lawn, then ends with a twisted flourish, on his knees, chest heaving, neck sweaty.

 

"...amazing," Yunho breathes out, "show me again."

 

Yunho's people storm off.

 

* * *

 

  * Jaejoong & Heechul HP AU



 

"Not _expelled_ ,” Heechul defends airily, " _suspended_."

 

"Well," Jaejoong sighs, crouched by a thick cobblestone wall, using his wand like a drill, "you can't use the invisibility cloak for _that_."

 

Heechul squats down, one perfectly-groomed eyebrow cocked, and worries at the deepening hole with his finger.

 

"Are you really saying this to me," he pretend-laughs, offended, and flips his bangs like a unicorn. "You repeated a year because you used it for that."

 

"...I only used it for that _once_..." Jaejoong pouts, candelabra above him dripping wax onto his dark hood.

 

"You were only _caught_ once," Heechul points out then loses his patience, and snaps, " _engorgio_!"

 

Rather than the hole widening, the entire wall swells grotesquely.

 

"Maybe if you showed up to class occasionally..." Jaejoong comments, more to himself.

 

The hole expands from the opposite side and then a pair of feet is replaced by a pair of curious eyes peering through.

 

"What are you doing," Junsu asks, squinting at the damage.

 

Undeterred, Heechul goes for a disarming innocent smile but it comes out as a condescending Slytherin smirk, "Not trying to sneak into Gryffindor, that's for sure."

 

* * *

  

  * florist/tattoo artist AU [ [x](http://songofthestarwhale.tumblr.com/post/107285867284/bluedragon-silence-dr-kara-jasongraceless) ] [jaechun]



 

"This..." Yoochun hesitates, examining the page, bent over his ink gun, "looks like a gardening brochure... are you sure you want—"

 

Tongue poking out, Jaejoong squirms before him and shifts his weight to one hip. "How long would a tattoo like that take to complete."

 

"At least a week," Yoochun replies with an awkward squint, twisting the page every which way.

 

"Then I'm sure."

 

*

 

"I need four dozen roses," Yoochun smiles, poking his head into the shop next door.

 

At the counter, Jaejoong's face darkens. "...for your girlfriend..."

 

"My mother's in town," Yoochun corrects and pads over to gently roll Jaejoong's sleeve up. "It's healing nicely."

 

Jaejoong covers Yoochun's hand with his, fever-hot.

 

*

 

"You remember you're allergic to pollen, right," Junsu points out, gesturing at Yoochun's apartment, brimming with countless flower arrangements.

 

"Not _deathly_ allergic..." Yoochun shrugs, sneezing thrice.

 

*

 

"You'll run out of space eventually," Yihan sighs, done.

 

"There's lasers," Jaejoong shrugs, scrolling down his phone for compelling Latin phrases.

 

"...you’ll laser off your tattoos..." Yihan starts incredulously, "...to get more tattoos..."

 

Jaejoong's lips twitch.


	33. jaechun

  * anon asked which fairy tales DBSK would be and then [heros-wings](http://tmblr.co/mJlZ7WEMJRRlAV32Rc6_kMw) [further messed me up](https://pbs.twimg.com/media/CMOrExDVEAAQ0PN.jpg) and so here’s Rapunzel [jaechun, very slight homin]



 

* * *

 

 

"Changminnie," Jaejoong says, pausing in the market, robes snagging on a jewelry stand, "what is that."

 

"A brooch," Changmin yawns and stealthily pockets a necklace.

 

"No," Jaejoong points, chubby fingers aiming at a distant sleepy boy buying half of a stale baguette, dark shiny hair curling around a pair of scrawny pale shoulders, "that."

 

"A guy," Changmin offers, bored.

 

"I want it," Jaejoong says and as a junior wizard trainee, he's pretty sure he can get it.

 

Changmin steals a couple of rings.

 

"Okay."

 

*

 

"Come with me."

 

The boy turns his head to stare. "What."

 

"I'm a wizard," Jaejoong explains patiently, "and I want—"

 

The boy walks off, tattered canvas bag dragging across the dusty path, baguette jerking with each step.

 

Offended, Jaejoong hikes up his robes and jogs ahead, crowding the kid, "It's just—I'm old enough to get my own apprentice now and—"

 

"Nah," the boy says, unaffected, and shuffles off, "I'm good."

 

 

 

*

 

 

For three whole years, Jaejoong goes to the marketplace every day.

 

"Today," he vows, clenching a fist at a remote vegetable stall where Yoochun isn't haggling over potato prices with a pretty salesgirl, hair tumbling down his back in shiny unbrushed waves, "Changminnie, today he's going to say yes."

 

"Sure," Changmin agrees with a listless sigh, pilfering an apple.

 

"And if he doesn't," Jaejoong warns darkly, "I'm going to lock him up."

 

Wise, Changmin nods.

 

 

*

 

 

"It's just—Yoochunnie—" Jaejoong reasons, trotting after a listing Yoochun, "my finals are coming up and they take two years to complete and I'm worried you'll try to marry some girl while I'm gone—"

 

Yoochun pauses, tote thumping to the ground.

 

"Right," he mutters to himself with a horrified sort of realization, suddenly deep in contemplation, "I have to get married."

 

"NO," Jaejoong snaps, fluttering around him with an impatient cluck, "like I've been telling you for three years, I—"

 

Yoochun lumbers off, depressed.

 

*

 

"So here's what we'll do."

 

Changmin groans.

 

"We'll plant a bunch of lettuce, okay," Jaejoong suggests, insane, "and we'll get his parents to steal some and then they'll have to sign Yoochun over to me to avoid charges."

 

Changmin presses his cheek to the apothecary table, drained. "Do you know anything about farming. Or contemporary witch law."

 

"We're wizards," Jaejoong points out incredulously, "how hard can it be."

 

 

*

 

Six months later, Jaejoong punts a rotted head of lettuce over a fencepost.

 

 

*

 

"Okay, how about this."

 

Changmin looks up from his book, feet resting on a cluttered desk. "No."

 

Jaejoong ignores him, pacing the library. "I bought a really tall abandoned tower outside of town—"

 

"You're afraid of heights."

 

"—and what if Yoochunnie lived there until I come back," Jaejoong barrels on, deaf, "no one can get in or out of that thing, it's a really weird architectural flaw but it'll keep him safe until—"

 

Changmin returns his attention to the book. "He's going to starve."

 

"No," Jaejoong insists, smacking Changmin's feet off the desk, "you'll bring him food while I'm gone."

 

"Yeah, I won't."

 

"You'll put it in a basket," Jaejoong instructs, mimicking the action, "and he'll let down his hair and draw it up." He breaks for praise, feeling accomplished. "It'll work like a pulley."

 

Eye twitching, Changmin stares.

 

"Even if," he starts, malfunctioning a little, "even _if_ his hair were long enough for that—and provided he doesn't actually _die_ while you're away—how are _you_ going to get to him when you come back."

 

Jaejoong pauses.

 

"Well..." he falters, chewing on his bottom lip, "by the time I come back, his hair should be long enough for me to just climb up."

 

"Okay, that definitely doesn't physically make sense," Changmin deadpans, done, "but I guess retractable ladders aren't a thing yet—"

 

"So you agree," Jaejoong perks up. "This will work."

 

Changmin hesitates, cautious. "You realize he could just cut his hair, make a rope, and esc—"

 

"We're doing this."

 

With a sigh, Changmin closes his book. "How are we gonna get him up there."

 

"Just..." Jaejoong growls, exasperated. "Magic."

 

*

 

"What," Yoochun mumbles, adorably disheveled and handing the flirtatious salesgirl a couple of dented coins.

 

"There's something I want to show you," Jaejoong says with the sweetest most harmless kind of persistence.

  
Suspicious, Yoochun squints at Jaejoong's crotch. "Nah, I'm good."

 

"Yoochunnie, it's a building."

 

Yoochun sets off, lazily hauling his groceries across the pebbled ground. "Not interested."

 

"I want to give it to you," Jaejoong whines, circling him.

 

Yoochun stops.

 

"Why."

 

Jaejoong perks up.

 

"Because," he starts anxiously, practiced speech forgotten, "while I'm away, I want you to... have something? that reminds you? of me...?"

 

Yoochun scrutinizes him for a moment, listening, attentive.

 

"The only condition is," Jaejoong continues with a nervous apologetic smile, palms sweaty, "you'd have to live there alone."

 

Yoochun's eyes darken in appreciation. "By myself?"

 

"Yes," Jaejoong murmurs, guilty. "Just you."

 

"I'm in."

 

*

 

"He's seventeen and unmarried," Yoochun's father shrugs, displeased, "take him."

 

Yoochun's mother packs a small satchel, amending bitterly, "He's seventeen and unmarried and childless."

 

Yoochun stuffs a handmade crossword puzzle into the satchel, hair cascading around his face, hiding a tiny smug smile.

 

"...I'll bring him back in two years..." Jaejoong offers politely even though he'll have his license in two years and accompanying proprietorship rights and will absolutely not be giving Yoochun back—

 

"Eh," Yoochun's dad says.

 

"We have another son," Yoochun's mom agrees.

 

 

*

 

 

"So no people," Yoochun asks, warm by Jaejoong's side.

 

Jaejoong slows his step, tower looming in the distance. "It's just for two years, Yoochunnie..."

 

" _No one_ will bother me for two years," Yoochun reaffirms, distrustful. "You promise."

 

Jaejoong grins, overcome.

 

 

*

 

 

"No," Yoochun complains, staring in abject horror. "I'm afraid of heights."

 

Helpful, Jaejoong presents the overgrown thorny vines ominously encircling the tower, "That's why I planted these."

 

Yoochun makes a face. "What."

 

"I'll help you climb up and then we'll cut them so no one else can—"

 

Resigned, Yoochun unwraps his satchel, silk pieces falling loose, then grudgingly glances at Jaejoong.

 

"Hand," he demands gruffly.

 

Startled, Jaejoong holds out his palms.

 

Gently, Yoochun ties a piece of silk around each.

 

"I just don't want you bleeding all over our tower, okay," he defends and Jaejoong's heart turns to actual wilderness.

 

*

 

"Why am I supervising this," Changmin whines loudly, hands around his mouth at the bottom of the tower.

 

Jaejoong ignores him, robes tearing on a particularly gigantic thorn, halfway to the tiny window at the top of the spiral.

 

Yoochun's jaw clenches. "Don't look down."

 

"AND USE MAGIC," Changmin shouts, annoyed.

 

Yeah, except Jaejoong can't remember a single spell, dizzy and nauseated and kind of bleeding below one knee.

 

Softly, Yoochun's fingers brush across his face, covering Jaejoong's eyes. "Don't look."

 

*

 

"Changmin will bring you food," Jaejoong rambles, pacing Yoochun's new room.

 

There's a cranky "I PROBABLY WON'T" from the outside.

 

Yoochun inspects a dresser. "Okay."

 

"And I'll be back in two years."

 

Yoochun sprawls across a narrow corner cot, face-down, pleased. "Okay."

 

"And you won't marry some girl while I'm gone."

 

Quietly compliant, Yoochun peeks at him under a thick curtain of hair.

 

"Okay."

 

*

 

 

Uneasy, Jaejoong makes it a week before he's expediting a worried letter home.

 

Changmin sends back a traumatized carrier pigeon with a curt _everything's fine_.

 

After a month, there's a suspiciously-worded _everything's mostly fine_.

 

After two months, the letter says,

 

_So there's a slight chance someone noticed there's a dude trapped in your tower and maybe they spread a weird rumor and it's sort of possible a lot of—and I mean a lot—of guys have been coming here to try and rescue him._

 

Jaejoong bolts in the middle of an exam.

 

 

*

 

 

"This is the OPPOSITE of what I wanted," he fumes angrily, power-walking to the fucking tower.

 

"Technically," Changmin points out with a guilty flinch, "you were hiding him from _girls_ , so it's not exactly the opp—"

 

Jaejoong freezes in his tracks.

 

All around the tower, where previously nothing but barren fields stretched as far as he could see, there is now a new kind of crop.

 

Makeshift camps.

 

"Changmin," Jaejoong blinks, unsettled.

 

"They..." Changmin apologizes, averting his eyes and gesturing vaguely at the assortment of knights and bruisers drinking around waning campfires, "they like the challenge..."

 

Appalled, Jaejoong takes in the sunset and the pockets of men littering what now looks like a battlefield barricading the tower and there's a legitimate knight at the base of it on an actual white horse, armor sparkling, lance steady at his side.

 

"Yoochun-ah," the knight says kindly, voice carrying, "just jump, I'll catch you."

 

Yoochun leans his chin onto the ledge.

 

"Yoochun-ah," the knight tries again, "there is so much of the world left to see." He pats his chest dramatically, burning with passion, one arm spread heavenward, "We could travel it together—"

 

"No, I'm okay up here," Yoochun assures him and disappears back into the shadows. Slowly, he pokes his head out again to offer a soft, "But thank you."

 

Defeated, the knight runs a hand through his horse's mane and grins, in a fond familiar way, "I'll be back tomorrow."

 

Off in the distance, Jaejoong's jaw clenches.

 

"How long has that guy been here," he grits out, murderous.

 

With an agitated huff, Changmin bares his teeth. "A whole month."

 

Bristling, panicked, Jaejoong narrows his eyes. "Who the hell just—what does he mean _tomorrow_ —"

 

"His name's Yunho," Changmin grunts and violently shoves Jaejoong forward, voice hollow, "...I planted some strawberries for him." He shakes himself, grossed out, and instructs, with a firm homicidal scowl, "You need to make him go away."

 

Jaejoong nods, hella determined.

 

*

 

 

Unrepentantly, he shoves his way through two drunken poets and a lecherous monk before he clears the perimeter to sideline Yunho and shout a hoarse unimpressed, "YOOCHUN."

 

There's nothing for a moment and then Yoochun's head is hastily poking out, hair cropped hideously short.

 

"You said," he greets, tone laced with accusation, "you said no one would bother me for two years."

 

"Yoochun-ah, have I..." Yunho asks remorsefully, horse neighing beneath him, "have I been bothering you..."

 

"No..." Yoochun says, frustrated, then narrows his eyes at Jaejoong. "You. Come up."

 

 

*

 

 

"...there's a door..." Jaejoong breathes, eyes wide.

 

"Changmin forgot to feed me for a week," Yoochun explains, roughly yanking him inside. "I had to make one."

 

The door creaks shut behind them.

 

"He also told everyone there's a curse so no one's tried to get in," Yoochun allows, trudging up the narrow staircase.

 

Jaejoong follows, watching the back of Yoochun's head, the unevenly cut patches and the exposed pale nape, and mourns, "Yoochunnie, why'd you cut it."

 

Yoochun pauses mid-step.

 

"Do you know," he starts, indignant, turning to stare down at Jaejoong, "do you know people kept telling me to let down my hair so they could climb it and come get me?"

 

"Right..." Jaejoong coughs, glancing away, "that's... very... ridiculous, I agree..."

 

Yoochun watches him for a moment.

 

His lips twitch.

 

"I don't need rescuing," he says and climbs up.

 

 

*

 

 

"How do we get rid of them."

 

Jaejoong sighs into the windowsill, cheek smushed against cobblestone, gaze trained on the unruly mob. "You'll have to leave."

 

Petulant, Yoochun crosses his arms, leaning against the wall. "I don't want to leave."

 

Jaejoong looks up.

 

"You would've had to leave eventually," he admits, dejected. "I would've come back in two years to bother you and you hate being bothered."

 

Yoochun uncrosses his arms and slowly slides down the wall to meet Jaejoong's eyes.

 

"It's kind of... okay if it's you," he says casually, crouched by Jaejoong's knees.

 

Jaejoong lets out a tiny overwhelmed noise.

 

"I mean," Yoochun corrects, "I don't hate it when it's you." Flushed, he waves an impatient hand. "It was maybe weird not seeing you for a couple of months."

 

"Two months," Jaejoong manages, ribcage shrinking rapidly, "and four days."

 

"And seven hours, I guess," Yoochun shrugs.

 

Jaejoong licks his lips, predatory. "So you want to stay here."

 

Yoochun makes a small noncommittal noise.

 

"And," Jaejoong continues with an eager disbelieving inhale, "if I wanted to stay here, too, would you—would you hate—"

 

Yoochun's mouth curls into a crooked grateful grin.

 

"Nah, I'd be good with that."

 

*

 

 

Behind the tower, knee-deep in a patch of strawberries, Changmin wipes at his sweaty forehead, trowel in hand, and throws an obsessive menacing glare at the far-off camp, deciding, "I just—I gotta buy a tower."


	34. jaechun

  * it’s [nanawood](http://tmblr.co/mv9ArqLNmHnJnEHFRDykk0A)'s birthday and she likes church dudes and jaechun and porn and I couldn’t decide which one of them should be the priest, so: 



 

* * *

 

 

WARNING: serious misappropriation of religious elements; please steer clear if you find such concepts offensive

 

* * *

 

 

Yoochun comes during Corinthians.

 

Jaejoong is at the pulpit, palms spreading the page, collar too tight, words flat and cautionary, mouth round with _fornication_.

 

Yoochun's stride harmonizes to the beat of Jaejoong's sermon, a clear heavy step for _sin_ , for _man_ , for _body_.

 

The scripture dies on Jaejoong's lips.

 

Yoochun stops to observe, shadowed near the back pew, shoulder pressed to the bishop's, quiet, unassuming, endlessly attentive, and Jaejoong thinks about his verses, his faith, Leviticus, he thinks about God and discipline and eternal hellfire.

 

"Guide him well," the bishop commands after communion, when Jaejoong's fingers are stained with too many careless mouths.

 

"Please guide me well," Yoochun agrees warmly, hands enfolding Jaejoong's.

 

 

*

 

 

"We didn't cover Canticles at the seminary," Yoochun says absentmindedly, ghosting his fingers over the testament.

 

"We won't cover it here, either." Jaejoong hesitates, uneasy, then asks, conversationally, "You haven't read Song of Songs?"

 

Yoochun meets his eyes.

 

"I read it."

 

An ache pools low.

 

"So," Jaejoong changes the topic, flustered, "what prompted you to complete your candidacy here."

 

"Last requirement before I'm ordained," Yoochun answers easily, but Jaejoong already knows, he knows all of this, has read and reread the letters sent to him, has memorized these lines, has learned the following things: Park Yoochun, 23; liturgy and pastoral studies; to receive the sacrament of holy orders at Your church, in Your order, during Your service, Park Yoochun, 23, Yours to contain.

 

Park Yoochun, Yours.

 

"His fruit is sweet to my taste," he reads from an untouched page, bent at the escritoire, voice low, immaculate white smock unbuttoned at the top, one collarbone bare, hair dark and loose and curling around his jaw. "I arose to open for my lover," he continues, amused, toying with an assortment of dried persimmons resting by the tome, "and my hands dripped with myrrh, my fingers with sweet smelling myrrh—"

 

"We don't," Jaejoong interrupts, shaky, and snaps the book closed, specks of dust freckling Yoochun's face. "We don't teach that here."

 

"I know," Yoochun says, playful, contrite, eyes bright.

 

"We preach," Jaejoong says, mouth dry, sleeves damp with sweat, "abstinence, celibacy. Self-control."

 

"I know," Yoochun nods, gently rolling a persimmon in his palm, fingers coated. He gives a lopsided grin and quotes, gruff, "It is good for a man not to touch a woman."

 

"No," Jaejoong lectures with a sudden persistent smile, lightheaded, restless, oddly boyish, "that's from Corinthians, Yoochun, we teach Corinthians."

 

Yoochun straightens and wipes his hand on Jaejoong's cassock, quiet.

 

"You," Jaejoong says anxiously, heart lurching, stomach twitching, "have a lot left to learn."

 

Yoochun meets his eyes, grin gone.

 

"I know."

 

*

 

 

"One of our parishioners lost a brother," Jaejoong announces solemnly, "so choose your first sermon accordingly."

 

Yoochun's gaze darkens.

 

 

*

 

 

Yoochun stands at the pulpit, shy, open, bathed in early morning light, sunshine-gold, mosaic-pink, saints and martyrs behind him, the public before him, the flock regarding him with wary unsure eyes, and then he says, "Brotherly love."

 

He speaks softly, slowly, patiently, tells them about Jonathan, tells them about David, tells them how Jonathan loved David as his own soul, loved him at first sight, loved him more than anyone, loved him and admired him and stripped his most precious possessions and gave them unto David, gave himself unto David, lived and fought and died for him.

 

The congregation shifts uncomfortably, crowded in the creaky pews, tense and troubled as Yoochun delivers his piece, voice like a sad song, clutching the worn warm wood of the pulpit with white-knuckled hands and addressing the hall with red glistening lips, and wildfire after wildfire ignites inside Jaejoong.

 

 

*

 

 

Jaejoong stills his hips, sheets wet below him, the haze of sleep clearing.

 

A throbbing painful ache pulls at his spine, tugs and tears and unfolds all the way down to his toes, strong, unstoppable, steeped in guilt, swayed by desire. It shatters on a soft needy moan, muffled by a pillow, softened by the sheets and Jaejoong empties helplessly, lost in the slivers of a lingering dream, of an insatiable Yoochun driving up into him.

 

 

*

 

 

A test, Jaejoong thinks as Yoochun slouches to receive his sacrament, a trial, sent to him by God.

 

Yoochun's mouth presses closer, hot, wet, soft, lips parting to sip at the wine, curving, fat, unholy.

 

Sent not by God, Jaejoong learns.

 

 

*

 

 

Yoochun's arms close around Jaejoong's waist.

 

To steady him on the step stool, that part is implied, because the basement is old and the step stool is old and the soles of Jaejoong's slipshoes are worn, so Yoochun holds him, holds onto him, cheek pressed between Jaejoong's shoulder blades, arms tightening until his back is blanketed by Yoochun's smock, by Yoochun's sharp angles, by Yoochun.

 

Jaejoong loses his footing anyway.

 

The fall is painless.

 

 

*

 

 

Yoochun rests atop a modest recliner, worrying at a rosary, elbows propped against his knees.

 

His mouth works silently, eyes closed, lashes fanning his cheeks, and all of Jaejoong's prayers go unanswered.

 

 

*

 

 

If I stop here, he thinks, unsated, shivering in the bath, fingers chilled by the cold, stubborn, denying, wrapped around the shaft, if I stop, if I stop, stop.

 

He doesn't.

 

 

*

 

 

Yoochun goes through his Devotions every night, on his knees, head bowed, hair tumbling over his eyes, shoulders wide and arched obediently.

 

Jaejoong watches, listens, aspires to stand before Yoochun who is on his knees, whose head is bowed, whose hair would feel good snagging on Jaejoong's fingers.

 

 

*

 

 

Yoochun touches him during their seventh shared aspersion, wiping the holy water off on Jaejoong's hip, palming the bony curve of it through the wool and shifting Jaejoong's side, repositioning him with purpose, red-faced but insistent, pressing up against Jaejoong, snugly, greedily.

 

 

*

 

 

Jaejoong comes in his hand, panicked, unsatisfied.

 

 

*

 

 

"Take my confession."

 

Yoochun startles, tangled in a blanket, disheveled, sleepy, the door to his room ajar. "What."

 

"I need to," Jaejoong starts, frustrated, fever-hot at three in the morning, barefoot on Yoochun's coarse throw rug. "Please."

 

"I'm not—" Yoochun apologizes and nervously sits up, shoulders tensing, brow knitting, "I'm not ordained yet."

 

"You have to," Jaejoong begs.

 

 

*

 

 

The confessional is dark and cold and it's been so long since Jaejoong's been on this side of it.

 

Capitulating, he straddles the tiny chair and presses his forehead to the screen, one hand tangling in the thick curtain by his side, the other brushing the kneeler, and says, broken, "Forgive me."

 

Yoochun says nothing.

 

"I have sinned," Jaejoong tells him and he's heard worse in this place—Yoochun will hear worse when he takes his vows, he'll hear _I stole, I cheated, I killed_ , and he'll forgive them all.

 

So he can forgive Jaejoong this.

 

"How..." Yoochun's voice filters through the lattice, hesitant, unsure, "how have you... I don't..."

 

"I've had impure thoughts," Jaejoong exhales but neither the loss of heaven nor the pains of hell have stopped them so he amends, "I've had them about you."

 

There's a strained startled breath and nothing more.

 

"Penance," Jaejoong instructs desperately, "give me penance."

 

There's only silence.

 

The curtain rips open.

 

"Forgive me," Yoochun says instead, reaching out for him, hoarse, "I'm going to sin."

 

Rattled, Jaejoong backs into the paneling, chair scraping against the ground, cassock tangling around his ankles.

 

Yoochun drops to his knees and folds himself around Jaejoong's waist, wraps shaking arms around it, buries his face in Jaejoong's lap, refuses to move.

 

"As long," Jaejoong starts, trembling, fingers naturally carding through Yoochun's hair, "as long as we stop here, as long as it's only thoughts, not actions—"

 

Yoochun mouths at his thigh, through the thick dense wool, fingers traveling down and shoving the skirts of the cassock aside, forcefully. He slides a hand up Jaejoong's calf, moves past the knee and slips between his thighs, brushing the inside of his wrist over a wet spot with an overwhelmed hopeless, "I saw you at the seminary last year, I saw and I..." he trails off mindlessly, lost to lust, forlorn and unnecessarily tragic, "I saw you but you didn't see me."

 

"I saw you," Jaejoong says, _saw you and coveted_ , he thinks and spreads his legs.

 

Yoochun immediately presses closer, fits himself between them, mouth nuzzling one of Jaejoong's low-sewn buttons, number twenty-nine or thirty, the last unknown year, the year for _we don't know_ and _it's not important_ , and then unfastens the entire row, bares Jaejoong's shame and takes it in hand.

 

"When I take my vows, Yoochun promises, mouth nipping at Jaejoong's hipbone, hungry, excessive, claiming, "I can absolve you, I can--I can make it sinless," his lips brush against skin, sticky, desperate, "anything I do, you can forgive, anything you do, I can—Jaejoong, we can overwrite it, so please."

 

"I'll overwrite it," Jaejoong agrees breathlessly, devastated, and raises his hand, crosses himself with effort, forgetting the procedure, then touches two fingers to Yoochun's burning forehead and pulls him up.

 

Yoochun finds his mouth with unerring wild accuracy, wet and familiar, tongue licking up and into Jaejoong, made to fit perfectly, and if Jaejoong is an abomination, Yoochun is, too, and if God won't want him, Jaejoong will want enough, will want hard, will want more, will replace even that for Yoochun.

 

"Ah," Yoochun gasps and it sounds so much like the ah in amen that Jaejoong pushes him off, unthinking, and straddles him in the narrow humid space, sweat trickling down his spine. Yoochun's back slams into the wall panel. Jaejoong's head brushes the ceiling, legs cramping and threatening to break the tiny narrow kneeler behind them.

 

Yoochun moans again, arching, resettling, arms back to own Jaejoong, clumsy and affectionate and possessive, so Jaejoong lifts his hips to work Yoochun's seminarian vestments open, to free him, heart capitulating, fingers steady, too sure and too ready, and he asks, with a kiss to Yoochun's temple, "Are you David or Jonathan."

 

"I'm yours," Yoochun answers honestly and grinds up, sparks a wave of want inside Jaejoong. His hands lower to cup Jaejoong's backside, to spread him open, to stretch him wide, to gradually, deliberately, thoroughly work him into an incoherent yielding mess, dripping and slick and slippery, pushing his fingers inside, pushing himself inside.

 

When he drives up and into Jaejoong, impossibly, painfully, deeply, Jaejoong whispers a prayer, forgets a verse with every shallow labored thrust, mouth by Yoochun's flushed ear, hips rolling without restraint, pain eased by the soft helpless noises below him.

 

Frantic, Yoochun bites at his shoulder, nails clawing at Jaejoong's hips, trying to keep him from rising, trying to draw him down deeper, to stretch him wider around the base and lock him in, but Jaejoong lifts up and snaps back down, knees rubbed raw, thighs trembling, and the crucifix above Yoochun's head loosens, dangles off its nail dangerously, ominously and Jaejoong smiles at it, at the paneling, at the cross, at defiling and dismantling it, at undoing the booth and Yoochun and himself.

 

"Wait," Yoochun warns on an exhale, trembling, hardening, rhythm stuttering, breath catching in his throat, "wait."

 

Shaking, Jaejoong pauses, clenching around him, bending to nip at his jaw, back to Corinthians, back to a verse he can manipulate, one Yoochun should like, paraphrasing, shameless, "Stop depriving one another and come together."

 

Startled, Yoochun huffs an appreciative laugh, bringing his hands up to tug Jaejoong closer, finishing the quote properly, half-ashamed, "So that Satan will not—will not tempt you because you lack self-control."

 

Grinning, Jaejoong rises, brings himself back down with a slow hard drag, coaxing a grateful awed groan from both. "But if they do not have self-control," he recites, close, aching, "let them marry," his muscles contract, satisfaction pooling deep and powerfully, "it's better to—Yoochun—to marry than to—Yoo _chun_ —burn with passion."

 

He slams down roughly, twisting, shuddering, filled.

 

Yoochun kisses him, gently, fondly, devotedly, throbbing and unfinished, touches his forehead to Jaejoong's, fingers lacing behind Jaejoong's nape, so Jaejoong spills between them, stains Yoochun in every way.

 

 

*

 

 

Yoochun takes his sacrament at Jaejoong's church, in Jaejoong's order, during Jaejoong's service.

 

And then, in the vestry, he takes Jaejoong.


	35. homin

  * orphan AU [homin]



 

* * *

 

 

 

Changmin is just always there.

 

When Yunho is eight and Changmin is six, the shelter gates sweep open with a heavy scrape and out of the blizzard, a small angry bundle shuffles in.

 

"This is Changmin," one of the sisters says, gently steering the boy inside. "He's staying."

 

Changmin is tiny and hostile and so Yunho watches from afar, buried under a pile of tattered toys and borrowed brothers, heartbeat wild in his chest.

 

Ghostlike, Changmin stands in the hallway while the sisters discuss him, weighed down by a bloated parka, sleeves too long, size too big, fists clenched, eyes downcast, boots stained with slush.

 

Yunho's only been here for a few months and he's still lost in a hushed incessant _they didn't want me_ and _it was my fault_ and _speak when spoken to_ so he tries not to say anything, but Changmin lurks in the hallway an hour past bedtime, like a relentless shadow, so when Yunho's forearm brushes Changmin's shoulder in passing, a soft  _you'll be okay_ helplessly rolls off his lips.

 

Startled, Changmin meets his eyes, the hood of his parka slipping down.

 

Yunho hurries to bed, barefoot, unsettled.

 

*

 

 

At breakfast, Changmin is told to sit next to Yunho.

 

He sits at a different table instead, arm protectively curled around his plate.

 

"Changmin," a sister says, impatient, prying his hands off the bread basket, "you have to share."

 

Changmin's bony fingers tighten around the rim with determination.

 

"Changmin," the sister warns and then Yunho is rising and quietly setting his bun on Changmin's plate.

 

Changmin looks up, guarded.

 

*

 

Yunho is late for dinner.

 

The seat next to his is taken.

 

Hunched, Changmin is waiting, feet barely touching the ground, ears red, hands clenched in his lap, soup cold, rice soggy.

 

He doesn't look at Yunho.

 

Tentatively, Yunho settles next to him with an uneasy kind of interest. He picks up a pair of chopsticks and pokes at the rice, discreetly scanning Changmin's profile.

 

Changmin hesitates, casts a shy side-glance at Yunho's bowl, then picks up his chopsticks and hungrily digs in.

 

 

*

 

 

All Changmin says at breakfast is, "Hyung."

 

Yunho slides the bun to Changmin's plate.

 

 

*

 

 

Changmin snaps his chin up, a full head shorter, and demands, equal parts unsure and rude, "Give me that toy."

 

Yunho gives him the toy.

 

 

*

 

 

"—grow up and get rich I'm going to buy a blue one for me," Changmin babbles, trailing excitedly after Yunho, waving a toy car like a plane, getting in Yunho's way, "and two red ones for you, hyung—"

 

"Changmin," Yunho yawns, pajamas dragging on the floor, "go sleep."

 

Changmin pauses in front of Yunho's room so Yunho sleepily palms the door open, squinting into the darkness.

 

The room is at capacity; each bunk bed filled, every window cracked from cold, ratty old rugs strewn haphazardly across the middle.

 

It's home.

 

"Changmin," Yunho says, exhausted, and climbs into the nearest empty bottom bunk. "Changminnie. Go to your own room."

 

Changmin hovers in the doorway, tiny frame silhouetted by the dim hallway lights, then diligently shelves the toy car atop a battered nightstand and pads over.

 

"What," Yunho starts but the mattress dips.

 

Silent, Changmin curls next to him like a wary kitten, folding his knees into Yunho's stomach, tucking his head under Yunho's chin, scrawny back bent against the ladder rung, tense and unassuming and clearly prepared for rejection.

 

"Okay," Yunho mumbles and wraps his blanket around them both.

 

 

*

 

 

A night later, Changmin brings his pillow and just stays.

 

 

*

 

 

When Yunho is nine and Changmin is seven, a family asks to meet.

 

"We've been looking for someone like you," they tell Yunho, kind and patient, and Yunho's heart swells with a tempered modest _maybe_ _they want me_.

 

"We've wanted a boy for so long," the father says, table between them packed with crayons and pastries.

 

"Such a handsome boy," the mother adds with a warm smile, nudging a plate toward Yunho.

 

"So _cute_ ," noona agrees, friendly, and brushes his bangs aside.

 

"— _CHANGMIN_ ," one of the sisters snarls, stomping into the room, out of breath, clutching a long cracked ruler, habit askew.

 

Shaking, raw red marks stamped across his hands, Changmin tears ahead and palms the table and says, "Give him back."

 

 

*

 

"Twenty," Yunho insists cheerfully, cheek pressed to his homework.

 

"That's excessive," one of the hyungs laughs hysterically, feet propped up on the library table, history textbook neglected across his chest. "Who's gonna give birth to so many kids??"

 

"...my wife..." Yunho offers because of course he's going to have an army of babies one day and raise them properly with a mother and a father and a bunch of dogs.

 

"No girl's gonna wanna marry you," another hyung chimes in, amused, sharpening a pencil, "if you tell her you want her to pop out twenty kids."

 

"You're going to be forever alone, Yunho-yah," a hyung warns, mouth twitching, gaze drifting to the door.

 

"He can marry me," Changmin says from the doorway, gangly and awkward, arms crossed over his chest.

 

The table erupts into uncontrollable laughter, a notebook or two aimed at Changmin's flushed head.

 

Yunho doesn't laugh.

 

*

 

When Yunho is ten and Changmin is eight, Changmin storms out of the group room, a prospective family gaping after him, and runs to where Yunho is waiting, where Yunho is trying not to wait, not to pace, not to brood, not to want.

 

"Both of us," he tells Yunho seriously, shoving at his shoulder in passing, "or neither of us."

 

Ashamed, relieved, Yunho doesn't argue.

 

*

 

 

When Yunho is thirteen and Changmin is eleven, a math tutor violently cleaves his ruler down the middle in an effort to separate them, tearing the side of Yunho's sweater and snagging Changmin's, lecturing, "Good brothers should always maintain a proper distance."

 

The gap between them shrinks.

 

 

*

 

 

Yunho kicks Changmin out of his bed at fourteen.

 

"What the hell," Changmin whines, crowding him, half a head shorter than Yunho, " _hyung_ ," his feet intercept Yunho's, banished pillow clutched to his stomach in protest, "hyung, come on, this is stupid, just let me sleep with you—"

 

For a month, Changmin tries to sneak back into Yunho's bed, like a heat-seeking missile, persistent, offended, entitled, obnoxious and oblivious.

 

One day, he stops, ears pink, eyes averted, shoulders tense.

 

 

*

 

 

"Gross," Changmin scrunches up his nose, basketball resting under his sweaty arm, "don't touch me."

 

Yunho's mouth is halfway to an affectionate congratulatory peck on the cheek, high on adrenaline and winning and habits, arms eager to embrace him with the kind of brotherly fondness cultivated over a decade, so he freezes on the court ground and murmurs, "What."

 

"Hyung," Changmin sermonizes piously, bouncing the ball at Yunho, addressing the rest of their team, "we're both men."

 

The ball slams into Yunho's stomach, hard, robbing him of breath.

 

 

 

*

 

 

"Changmin," Yunho's girlfriend complains, annoyed, "you have to share."

 

Undeterred, Changmin bites into the fries for emphasis.

 

"Why is even _here_ ," she asks Yunho with an exasperated glare and pinches him under the table.

 

"He wants like twenty kids," Changmin says around the food, sipping Yunho's soda, staring her down with purpose, bratty and inconsiderate, "did he tell you that."

 

"That's..." Yunho's girlfriend falters, "excessive."

 

*

 

 

"Ten seconds, hyung," Changmin says and crawls into Yunho's bed. "I won't do anything."

 

Yunho shoves him away, furious.

 

*

 

 

 

"Get a girlfriend," Yunho growls.

 

Changmin hesitates, cheeks dark, fingers buried in Yunho's back pocket.

 

 

*

 

"Oppa," Changmin's girlfriend says, flustered, tearing at a napkin, elbows digging into the wobbly coffee table between them, "I don't understand."

 

"Please," Yunho says politely, "give him back."

 

*

 

 

When Yunho is eighteen and Changmin is too young, snow buries the city.

 

"It's cold," Changmin shrugs and throws an old blanket over Yunho's knees.

 

"Yeah," Yunho says noncommittally, reading through a rejection letter, _wasn't wanted wasn't wanted_ looping in his head.

 

"That school is too far away anyway," Changmin says and drops to his knees by Yunho's chair, curls messy.

 

"Yeah," Yunho agrees.

 

"Hyung," Changmin slides a hand up the blanket, curling his fingers around Yunho's knee. "You forgot to send in a form."

 

Yunho didn't forget.

 

"Yeah."

 

*

 

 

"Ten seconds."

 

Yunho pauses, then lifts up his covers and scoots back.

 

Changmin slips in, sleepy, chin instinctively pressing to Yunho's collarbone.

 

Yunho brings the covers down. "That's ten."

 

Changmin burrows deeper, breath hot on Yunho's skin. "Starting now."

 

Yunho slides an arm around him, nosing at his hair. "Sure."

 

 

*

 

 

"So," Changmin summarizes, apathetic. "It's official. Neither of us ended up getting adopted."

 

"Well," Yunho reminds kindly, leaning against the wall. "You have a few months left."

 

"Nah," Changmin smiles, propped next to him, the sole of his shoe pressed to the ugly wallpaper.

 

Yunho lets the room lapse into silence, then says, nervous as fuck, "I've been thinking."

 

Changmin turns his head to look, insult dying on his lips.

 

"I can enlist," Yunho says, palms wet, stomach knotted, _I want_ overriding the distant faint echo of _I wasn't wanted_ , "and once I'm done, I'll have a rank and a family registry and I can—I can add you."

 

Changmin frowns deeply, a slow simmering fury darkening his face.

 

"Yunho," he says, voice sharp, eyes dangerous, "I don't want to be your _brother_."

 

Yunho pauses.

 

"I know."

 

Surprise washes over Changmin's face, softening his features.

 

He says, too casual, hands shaking at his sides, a centimeter taller than Yunho, "We can go together in a few months. If you want."

 

It sounds like _I want, unconditionally_.

 

"Yeah," Yunho says, "I do."

 

 

 

*

 

When Yunho is twenty-two, Changmin is his.


	36. homin

  * friendly competition [homin+siwon]



 

* * *

 

 

"...that's new," Yunho says, pausing in the hallway.

 

"Siwon-ah," Jaejoong calls out with an irritated threatened wave, "put a shirt on."

 

"...that doesn't sound right at all..." Yoochun muses and disappears behind a dorm corner.

 

Changmin squints at the blinding stretch of muscle rippling across Siwon's front, sprawling like a newly-risen marble citadel, then crowds Yunho to gesture at the abomination with an unimpressed whiny, "Hyung, that looks pretty gross."

 

"Mm," Yunho agrees, distracted.

 

 

*

 

"It's gross, right," Changmin complains, sipping juice, sulking atop a narrow studio bench.

 

Sweat-drenched, Jaejoong gasps for air, pawing at the mirror in distress.

 

"It's gross," Changmin tells Yoochun instead, murdering the juice box with a final greedy suck.

 

Broken, Yoochun desperately fans himself, flushed from practice, and manages a weak, "What."

 

Changmin nods his chin across the studio where Yunho's flexing a shiny sinewy bicep at a shirtless sweaty Siwon.

 

Yoochun tries to focus then crumples to the bench with a sad little, "Yeah."

 

Unsatisfied, Changmin locks his gaze on Siwon and the obnoxious way he's patting Yunho's arm.

 

And the curve of Yunho's shoulder.

 

And Yunho's neck.

 

Changmin crushes the straw between his teeth.

 

 

*

 

 

"It's going to turn to fat," Changmin points out scientifically, tucked away cross-legged in a gym corner, eyes narrowed at the sheen of sweat pooling at the dip of Siwon's spine.

 

Preoccupied, Yunho hauls himself up for another unnecessary pushup, focused on Siwon's distant reflection in the studio mirror. "What."

 

"When he stops exercising," Changmin explains, annoyed. "Bam. Fat as fuck."

 

Yunho frowns, halting his workout, bangs matted with sweat.

 

"Changminnie..." he starts, tactful, "do you... like Siwon."

 

" _No_ ," Changmin growls, appalled.

 

"Okay," Yunho prompts slowly. "You know. Just. Liking Siwon would be wrong because—"

 

"Because he's a man," Changmin huffs with an appreciative nod, nauseated at the thought.

 

"...sure," Yunho agrees awkwardly, averting his eyes, jaw clenched, "because of that."

 

 

*

 

 

"Seventy-four," Siwon grunts, abs crunching, hands behind his head, shirt off, "seventy-five."

 

"Seventy-five," Yunho exhales, matching him, the yoga mat beneath them stained with sweat.

 

Changmin bites into his candy bar with a savage chomp, watching from the bench.

 

 

*

 

 

"Ninety-nine," Changmin breathes, dying, alone in his Tokyo bedroom, "one _hundred_."

 

Terrified, Yunho gingerly toes his door closed.

 

*

 

 

"Gross," Changmin complains but repositions Yunho's hand lower on his naked abdomen, "no skinship."

 

"Nice work, Changminnie," Yunho praises, patting the barest hint of muscle with some interest.

 

"Better than Siwon's," Changmin asks, regretting it instantly.

 

"What," Yunho blinks, dropping his hand.

 

Changmin yanks it back to his stomach.

 

*

 

 

"What are you doing here," Changmin grits out suspiciously, eyeing the dressing room exit.

 

Siwon gives him a smarmy grin, cosplaying a fucking cop. "Just wanted to discuss something with Yunho."

 

"Discuss it with me first," Changmin instructs, jaw clenching.

 

"No, that's... weird," Siwon frowns, wrapping an affectionate arm around Changmin's shoulder. "Listen. When you see Yunho, tell him—"

 

"I'm here," Yunho says coldly, appearing out of nowhere, eyes focused on Siwon's stupid fingers.

 

Siwon perks up and shoves Changmin away, smoothly sidling up to Yunho. "I have a proposition."

 

 

*

 

 

"A cameo," Yunho repeats with enthusiasm, eyes sparkling, pure, "in his new show."

 

Changmin bans TVs for a year.

 

*

 

 

"One hundred and fifty-eight," Yunho sniffs in encouragement, crouched by Changmin's sticky torso, munching on a kingsize chocolate bar, "one hundred and fifty-nine."

 

Changmin groans from the exertion, arms trembling, muscles growing their own muscles, "I bet Siwon can't—can't do so many, right."

 

Yunho's eyes darken with displeasure.

 

 

*

 

 

"If hyung," Changmin promises at some enlistment party or another, wasted, "if he was a girl," he stabs his finger at Siwon's head with menace, "I'd do him so hard—so hard his warranty'd get voided."

 

"What," Siwon scowls, sober, "what does that even mean."

 

"But he's not," Changmin eulogizes, stabbing at Siwon's huge head again, "he's not a girl so back off."

 

 

*

 

 

"You spent the night with Siwon," Yunho greets, expressionless.

 

Hungover as fuck, Changmin shields his eyes, squinting at Yunho's crossed legs. "What."

 

"I... like that you two get along so well," Yunho manages, tone strained, knuckles white, "but I'm going to be enlisting next year, so maybe..." he trails off, frustrated. "Nothing. It's fine."

 

 

*

 

"Son of a _bitch_ ," Changmin screams at Kyu during a concert, pointing maniacally at a dark corner of the stage where Siwon is fucking _cradling_ Yunho, suggestively shoving his filthy mic at Yunho's mouth, biceps flexing, lips curled against Yunho's beautiful cheek, "this fucking ends _now_."

 

"Yes," Kyu agrees, very done, "please let it end."

 

 

*

 

 

"You can't have Yunho."

 

Siwon pauses.

 

"I'm straight," he says, poised. "God made me straight."

 

Relief spreads all the way down to Changmin's toes.

 

"But Yunho is..." Siwon amends, contemplative, mouth stretching with a sly greedy drawl, "I think God would forgive me if it's Yunho."

 

"What."

 

Siwon grins, turning both palms to the ceiling. "If I say I'm sorry later it's okay."

 

" _What_."

 

"It's easier if I ask for forgiveness after," Siwon tries again, growing impatient, "than if I ask for permission first."

 

Changmin recoils, uncomprehending. "What kind of religion—"

 

"Anyway," Siwon dismisses him breezily, "I would like to have him."

 

 

*

 

 

"Siwonnie," Yunho says, drunk during an afterparty, a horde of potential predators circling his seat, "you looked so handsome that one time—in the, in the uniform."

 

"You, too," Siwon replies sweetly, canting his chopsticks at Yunho's mouth.

 

Changmin reaches out and snaps them in half.

 

"Everyone looks nice," Yunho nods to himself, still helplessly waiting for a bite, "as a cop."

 

Vicious, Changmin laser-locks his eyes on Siwon's.

 

Calm, Siwon slowly turns his head to the side, pupils widening fractionally as things sink in.

 

"If you'll excuse me," he starts, feigning composure, and hastily clambers to his feet, "I have to go sign up for som—"

 

"NO YOU DON'T," Changmin hollers, climbing over the table and scrambling for the door.

 

 

*

 

 

"You're shitting me, right," Changmin asks the phone, staring at his papers. "We're in the _same fucking unit_?"

 

"First break we get," Siwon ignores him, signal weak, voice extra peppy, "I'm going to go visit him. In uniform."

 

 

*

 

 

"So," Yunho says, arms crossed, features hard. "Same unit."

 

"Hyung," Changmin starts desperately, "if he requests to see you, you have to say no—"

 

"I mean," Yunho says, not listening, "it was one thing when you just wanted his body, but now you want his _time_ —"

 

"—or if he just shows up, make sure he's not wearing the uniform—"

 

"—and if you want, Changminnie, I'll give you my blessing but I really don't think—"

 

"HYUNG," Changmin begs, "MEET HIM ONLY IN SAFE PUBLIC AREAS—"

 

"—WHAT DOES HE HAVE THAT I DON'T—"

 

 

*

 

"Yeah," Donghae tells Siwon with a disapproving click of his tongue, "you're going to hell."

 

Grinning, Siwon clasps his shoulder.

 

"Not if I say I'm sorry."

 


	37. homin

  * to his horror, Changmin discovers he's got a massive secret kink: angry Yunho.



 

For [ifiesced](http://ifiesced.tumblr.com/) ❤

 

 

* * *

 

 

Sometimes Changmin thinks love is a finite thing, a box, a half-cup, a shrinking pocketful of space; spilled needlessly along the way; an inventory to be conserved and consumed practically.

 

Anger, on the other hand, is an infinite, renewable resource.

 

So when Yunho throws the towel at him and says, "Just quit," Changmin soaks through with it.

 

It's equal parts righteous indignation and stubborn searing shame, so he dusts himself off, meets Yunho's eyes, and says, " _No_."

 

*

 

In the bathroom, fourteen years old and profoundly unsettled, Changmin palms the sink and breathes hard, in and out, back tense and fingers shaky.

 

*

 

Unrepentant, he writes an apology because the company makes him. He scribbles countless reflection letters because manager-hyung tells him to. And then he fucks up the moment Yunho's in front of him again, tall and intense and soft with everyone but Changmin.

 

"I'm not quitting," he tells Yunho as though he's delivering a declaration of war.

 

Yunho watches him for a moment.

 

"Good."

 

*

 

 

Yunho grows soft with Changmin, too.

 

It's an absolute kind of softness, thick and perpetual, a warm _you did well_ here and a proud _good job_ there.

 

Overwhelming in its simplicity, it makes Changmin restless, weirdly unsatisfied, unreasonable.

 

"Don't do it," Jaejoong says, eyeing him over the top of a script, sprawled across their Seoul couch.

 

Like a disobedient cat, Changmin bats Yunho's flip phone off the table.

 

 

*

 

"I WILL BEAT THE DEVIL OUT OF WHOEVER DID IT," Yunho roars, uncharacteristically loud, Gwangju dialect heavy and unfamiliar, cheeks flushed, teeth bared, the carcass of his phone at his feet. "WHO DID IT."

 

Rooted to the ground, Changmin falters.

 

_I did it_ lingers in his mouth, rubbing against the inside of his cheeks, _I ruined the game you've been playing for seven days_ , but Yunho's filter has been obliterated and it's a mesmerizing sight to behold, a terrifying beautiful rampage Changmin's helpless to resist.

 

Awkwardly, Yoochun and Junsu duck behind a wall and Jaejoong peaces out with a sigh.

 

Changmin stays.

 

*

 

 

Tangled in his sheets, predawn, Changmin buries his face in the pillow with a frustrated grunt.

 

He's hard and that's fine; doesn't take much these days. But it's also annoying and really fucking confusing because all he's been obsessively replaying is Yunho's unbridled fury and how terrifying hyung was, how intimidating and dark, how hellbent on breaking something.

 

For a moment, Changmin thinks: _me_.

 

_Hyung could have broken me._

 

_*_

 

He climbs onto the living room futon, where Yunho's passed out, fully clothed, warm and sleep-soft and clutching his broken phone.

 

Manager-hyung looks up from the table and the day's schedule, then snaps a picture. "Cute."

 

And because Changmin is cute, because he won't be cute forever, he burrows into Yunho's back, knee shamelessly draped over Yunho's hip like a defective claw.

 

*

 

"That," manager-hyung tells Jaejoong, hands gripping the wheel, "is a stale green light."

 

The van slows down.

 

"When you don't know how long it's been green," manager-hyung continues, giving Yoochun a brief glance, "you have to assume it'll turn red at any moment."

 

Dutifully, Yoochun and Jaejoong nod, three failed road tests between them.

 

"When you see this," manager-hyung repeats sternly, easing off the gas, "be prepared to stop."

 

In the back seat, Changmin's head lolls onto Yunho's shoulder.

 

 

*

 

"We should lock him in," Jaejoong grins, squinting at the van.

 

Changmin glances up from the curb, bored. "What."

 

"We should lock Yoochun in."

 

It sounds like a bad idea.

 

"You'll aggro Yunho-hyung," Junsu yawns, playing with a pebble.

 

It's hot and humid and the van has no A/C.

 

And sometimes Yunho pays too much attention to Yoochun, so Changmin hops up and double-clicks the key fob in Jaejoong's hand.

 

*

 

 

Yoochun paws at the car window.

 

"This is horrible," Junsu says but he's cackling.

 

Next to him, Jaejoong taps the window, taunting, "Want out, Yoochunnie?"

 

Cracking up uncontrollably, Changmin leans on Junsu's shoulder, a bone-deep spark of anticipation battering his spine because if there's anything Yunho hates more than dick moves it's dick moves against his members.

 

Miserable, Yoochun palms the window, a defeated muffled _lemme out_ trickling through the glass.

 

Changmin dangles the keys in front of his face with a wicked feverish grin.

 

"Let him out, Changmin."

 

Changmin's knees buckle.

 

Yunho's standing behind them, eerily calm, sunglasses on, expression unreadable.

 

A wave of something painfully needy punches the air out of Changmin's lungs.

 

With a sheepish flustered _sorry_ , Junsu unlocks the door.

 

Nostrils flaring, Changmin barnacles himself to Yunho's side.

 

 

*

 

At midnight, he spills into his hand, in the back seat of the stupid van, on principle, out of spite, bewildered and defiant and uncomprehending.

 

*

 

 

Gradually, Yunho learns to control his temper.

 

Instead of a wall of daunting dark displeasure or the barrage of a thick Gwangju accent, there's an authoritative raised eyebrow or a clipped brusque comment.

 

The light is too green for far too long, so on his sixteenth birthday, Changmin finds himself indulging.

 

The MCs are unexpectedly gushing over him during an outdoor special and he basks in it, glows gratuitously, praises himself, replacing humility with the thing hyung hates most.

 

Beside him, Yunho grows cold and irritated.

 

In the middle of Changmin's third baseless braggy compliment, Yunho just... walks off.

 

"Enough," he tells the MCs, terse. "Inside."

 

The camera crew scatters obediently.

 

A crest of panic pricks at Changmin's nape. Stupidly, he shuffles after Yunho, awkwardly trying to flank him on both sides at once. When Yunho ignores him for the fifth time, Changmin sidles up to Yoochun to gauge the damage, cameramen crowding them in the narrow hallway.

 

"Is hyung mad," he asks.

 

"Oh." Yoochun's mouth twitches. "Very."

 

Fearful, flustered, Changmin flits from one hyung to the next, trying to catch a glimpse of Yunho's face. Excitement pools alongside worry and then he rounds the corner to a cacophony of firecrackers and confetti and a  _happy birthday_ surprise party.

 

Disappointment displaces distress and a wave of deep displeasure settles in.

 

"Don't do it," Yoochun whispers in passing, "there's witnesses."

 

Across the room, Yunho smiles fondly, gaze warm.

 

*

 

 

There are definitely witnesses.

 

Cameras, coordis, countless crew members; a national broadcast airing soon.

 

"It was an accident," Changmin tells the host, pandering, cloying, adorable. "I thought of confessing."

 

Jaejoong gives him a measured glance.

 

Yunho's brows furrow.

 

"I thought of telling Yunho-hyung: I did it, I broke your phone, I ruined your game," Changmin says cutely, in public, with cameras rolling and spectators assembled and several protective bodies between them. "I was too scared to confess because I was definitely going to get broken by Yunho-hyung."

 

The host's head swivels in Yunho's direction.

 

"...it's... in the past," Yunho says, faltering, diplomatic, softer than ever. "Changmin is more important than a game."

 

Changmin purses his lips, annoyed.

 

*

 

  
"Jihye got in trouble," Yunho mumbles into the carpet, sweaty and exhausted.

 

"What," Junsu asks, faceplanted into the couch above him. "Why."

 

"Some boy pulled her pigtails," Yunho explains tiredly, "so she pulled down his pants."

 

Curled up on the couch, Jaejoong chokes, shoulders shaking.

 

"That probably just means he likes her," Yoochun muses with a maidenly wave of his wrist.

 

Yunho wrinkles his nose in distaste, fingers digging into the carpeting. "That makes no sense."

 

"Sometimes you're mean to people you like," Jaejoong shrugs, rubbing at one bleary eye.

 

Yunho frowns. "You should only be nice to people you like."

 

Unamused, four pairs of eyes turn to stare at him.

 

"Hyung," Changmin says after a beat, "I broke your speaker."

 

Yunho groans, inhaling deeply.

 

*

 

 

"We're gonna go," Jaejoong says.

 

And then when he leaves and Yoochun leaves and Junsu leaves, Changmin creeps into Yunho's room and because angry Yunho is infinitely less disheartening than sad Yunho, he says, "Maybe I should go, too."

 

The change is so instant, so swift and drastic and spine-chillingly intense Changmin's feet freeze, a loud blaring _be prepared to stop_ echoing in his head.

 

"Not you," Yunho grits out and rises.

 

Changmin takes an involuntary step back.

 

"Not you," Yunho repeats, less rough, visibly struggling to rein in his reaction.

 

Shaking and overjoyed, Changmin nods.

 

"Not me."

 

*

 

"I'm sorry, Changminnie," Yunho says in the morning, bed hair an abomination, expression understanding, compassionate. "If you want to—"

 

Changmin slams the fridge door closed. "Did you eat my fried chicken."

 

"What," Yunho blinks, startled.

 

"Did you eat my fried chicken," Changmin frowns, the balance shifting. "It's just you and me now and I didn't eat it so that means you ate it, which means you've been eating my fried chicken _this whole time_ —"

 

Yunho's mouth curls up.

 

"Hyung," Changmin snarls, smacking the fridge. An old Shibuya magnet falls off. "I was giving Junsu shit for three years."

 

"Sorry," Yunho says and looks anything but.

 

 

*

 

 

A bottle of shampoo hurtles across the living room.

 

"I told you to get more," Yunho reminds, dripping wet, tiny white towel hanging off his tanned hipbones, skin glistening, mouth set to a frown.

 

Changmin's eye twitches. "Did you check the fucking cabinet."

 

Yunho pauses. "I... did not."

 

There's no shampoo in the cabinet but by the time Yunho realizes and retaliates, Changmin plans on being safely barricaded in his room, hand firmly around his junk.

 

It's fine, he thinks, panting into a borrowed lumpy pillow, cupping himself.

 

It's not because of Yunho.

 

It's because Changmin's young and healthy and not allowed to date. It's a side-effect of sex embargoes, a byproduct of cohabitation, the aftermath of an adrenaline rush provoked by unanticipated conflict.

 

It's not Yunho.

 

Yunho is a platonic stimulant, an accidental factor, a negligible aspect of this.

 

Yunho's not a catalyst.

 

 

*

 

There are things Yunho needs to know.

 

The capital of France, conjugation of Japanese verbs, how to tie shoelaces.

 

There are things Yunho doesn't need to know.

 

"I borrowed your underwear."

 

Yunho pokes his head out of the blanket. "What."

 

"I was out," Changmin explains reasonably, leaning against Yunho's doorframe, "so I'm wearing your last pair today."

 

Eight years of scrutinizing Yunho's microexpressions and Changmin expects a clench of the jaw, a tensing of the shoulders, a kind of skeptical _I'm sleepy but I'll grumble_ anger, not rough nor real but comforting nevertheless.

 

"Okay," Yunho yawns and stretches, bare calf slipping out of the sheets. "I'll go without today."

 

Changmin withdraws wordlessly, face burning.

 

 

*

 

Changmin interrupts naps. Yunho thanks him. Changmin eats Yunho's share of food. Yunho piles more on Changmin's plate. Changmin steals Yunho's shirts.

 

"We live together," Yunho smiles at anyone who asks, boyish. "It happens."

 

Changmin yanks Yunho's headphones off, plays his games too loud, refuses to take out the trash, turns up the thermostat. Yunho tosses damp towels everywhere, leaves wet spots in the bathroom, forgets to close cabinets, loses utensils, grows moldy tomatoes in the back of the fridge, moves the toothpaste and leaves the cap off and squeezes from the fucking middle—

 

"Hyung," Changmin growls one day, over it, over Yunho, over whatever misguided infatuation plagued him as a dumb kid, "you're so fucking annoying."

 

Yunho broods for three days.

 

Changmin trails after him obediently, nervous, conciliatory, idiotically eager.

 

*

 

"You didn't answer your phone," Yunho mumbles, hair-cutting cape loose around his neck.

 

Changmin plops down into the salon chair next to him with a casual shrug. "I was on a date."

 

Yunho meets his eyes in the mirror.

 

Uncomfortable, the stylist pockets her shears and disappears.

 

"Oh," Yunho says with a guarded look, hair trimmed and slicked back and impossibly irresponsibly uselessly attractive. "Now may not be the best time to..." He cuts himself off. "Okay."

 

Disappointed, Changmin sinks deeper into the chair.

 

*

 

Jihye shows up at the apartment with a roll of trash bags in each hand.

 

"How are you both not dead," she greets, scanning the living room.

 

A fruit fly buzzes past her head.

 

There is a sort of truce between Changmin and the mess behind him. At night, he frantically fantasizes about deep-cleaning the place, about obsessively scrubbing the floors and the walls and the furniture, about compulsively burning the shit out of leftover needless things: Jaejoong's shirts, Yoochun's books, Junsu's games.

 

During the day, though.

 

"Hyung is..." Changmin starts in protest, almost desperate, stack of boxes behind him, obstinance inside him. His gaze falls to the mess of their shared underwear littering the floor. "Hyung started it."

 

Jihye pauses, toes a pair of briefs away, and turns to watch Changmin.

 

"So," she deadpans, "are you sleeping with my brother."

 

The proper response is not, "Not yet," but Changmin says it anyway.

 

*

 

"Oh," Siwon says with an attentive grin, watching Yunho deal with a rude key grip, features stuck somewhere between professional reprimand and gentle parental discipline. "Hyung's cute when he's angry."

 

Changmin frowns.

 

"Hyung's always cute."

 

Siwon pats his head.

 

*

 

Abroad, between MV takes, sitting on the steps of some decrepit soundstage, sucking on a popsicle, Changmin nods his chin at a shifty-eyed staffer. "That guy wants to fuck you."

 

Pressed next to Changmin, fanning himself with the script, Yunho makes a _watch your fucking language_ face and scowls. "You mean he wants to get fucked by me."

 

Changmin embeds his teeth into the popsicle. "Nope."

 

 

*

 

It's not platonic.

 

In rehearsal, Changmin has to push, has to claw at Yunho's bare chest, has to leave marks and breathe Yunho's air, and Yunho half-licks him when he fights back, amused and embarrassed and strangely shaky.

 

Yeah.

 

Yunho's the absolute catalyst.

 

 

*

 

It starts in the studio because of course it does.

 

Yunho is a good person, genuinely a good person and sometimes Changmin worries _he's_ not, so he shows up fifteen minutes late with coffee and a donut.

 

"Is that for me," Yunho greets, mouth a thin impatient line.

 

"...it is now...?" Changmin hesitates, proffering the coffee cup.

 

Yunho grabs the donut instead. "You're late."

 

"Traffic," Changmin nods piously because their comeback is in two weeks and everything is off, feels just this side of wrong and he's inadequate, he's unprepared and insufficient and painfully aware there's no way he can make up for the quantity and quality of three people and the fans will know and _Yunho_ will know—

 

"Changmin," Yunho says, serious, "I don't want excuses."

 

"It's not an excuse, hyung," Changmin defends stubbornly. "It's a reason."

 

Yunho's eyes narrow imperceptibly. "What's the difference."

 

"I don't know!" Changmin snaps, slamming the cup on the soundboard. The lid pops off, staining the controls.

 

Yunho eyes the coffee and then offers, too softly, "Do you want to talk about—"

 

It's a death-knell, a green light so stale Changmin guns it. That thing, that box, that half-cup, that shrinking pocketful of space bursts helplessly open; he spends everything stupidly, in one place, on one fucking person, squanders it all on Yunho, just Yunho, so fully and wastefully and recklessly; accumulates a massive abiding debt, a need, a want, an urgency.

 

There's the familiar mantra of _be prepared to stop_ but Changmin says, "I should've left with them."

 

It's nuclear.

 

There's a creak of the floorboards, a blink of the lights, and Yunho's long fingers tangling in Changmin's t-shirt with possessive force.

 

"Changmin," Yunho breathes out, a warning and a demand.

 

Changmin locks his eyes on Yunho's.

 

To have Yunho's trust and faith, to have everything and to want more, to want all of it, to deviate Yunho from his path to sainthood is greedy as fuck but, "I wish I'd left with them, hyung."

 

Eyes flashing, Yunho makes a beautiful noise, caught between anger and despair.

 

He hesitates for a moment, muscles twitching angrily, so Changmin gives up and says, "Do it."

 

Yunho's pupils dilate. "What."

 

"Get mad."

 

Yunho tightens his grip, eyes averted.

 

Stupid, Changmin murmurs. "I like all of it, hyung."

 

Yunho lets go. "You shouldn't."

 

"Well," Changmin shrugs helplessly. "I fucking do."

 

 

*

 

The silent treatment isn't a turn-on.

 

But Changmin's in bed anyway, sighing into the scratchy sheets, fingers coated, toes curled, eyes shut, looping the expression on Yunho's face over and over.

 

The tense curve of Yunho's shoulders, the deliberate distance between them, the sudden satisfying awareness of Changmin's every move.

 

Changmin's phone vibrates right as binding burning warmth pools low in his stomach.

 

Frustrated, he catches the phone between his teeth, drags it closer, and unlocks the screen with his chin.

 

_22:53 changmin, i get it_

 

Changmin's fingers pause.

 

_22:53 because i like the worst part of you the best_

 

Changmin sits up, hips achy.

 

Uncomprehending, he stares at the texts, rehashing all the times Yunho ruined an omelette or left a wet spot in the bathroom or toothpaste in the shower or didn't change the toilet paper roll—

 

With a sharp inhale, he scrambles for a pair of discarded boxers and rushes out.

 

The hallway is dark and Yunho's room is empty but there's light peeking from beneath the bathroom door.

 

Changmin's boxers are sticking to him, tented by the scent of eucalyptus body wash because Yunho's running the koala joke into the ground, so with a shaky breath, Changmin opens the door and slips in.

 

Yunho's phone is by the sink, screen fogged up, page stuck on Changmin's lack of reply.

 

The water turns off.

 

"Hyung," Changmin calls out, careful, tentative. "Do you want to."

 

The shower curtain doesn't move. Yunho's silhouette freezes behind it.

 

"Do I want to what," he asks conversationally.

 

Changmin glances at the wet clothes by his feet. "Fuck."

 

There's a beat and then the shower curtain slides to the side. Droplets of water splash Changmin's face. Yunho steps out.

 

"Yeah."

 

 

*

 

"Seven days, Changmin-ah," Yunho manages, panting softly, a sheen of sweat coating his skin, mouth pressed to Changmin's shoulder around a hungry absentminded, "I played that game for seven days straight."

 

Focused, Changmin shifts, Yunho's wet hair tickling his collarbone, sheets twisting beneath them. "I know."

 

"Was it an accident," Yunho murmurs and arches, the jut of his hipbone digging into Changmin's stomach.

 

Beyond rational thought, Changmin presses him deeper into the mattress and hums, undone, "Not even a little."

 

Yunho yanks on his hair hard, fingers carding through the curls with purpose, teeth bared menacingly. "Knew it."

 

 

 

*

 

 

"No, you don't understand," Changmin complains to the interviewer, earnest. "Hyung and I fight like cats and dogs."

 

Yunho laughs adorably, flushed and mortified and firmly palming Changmin's knee.

 

"Yeah," he grins at the camera, pleased, "we sure do."


End file.
